


Cross Dimensional Problems

by RedEyedRyu



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Angst, Biting, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Characters Added As They Appear - Freeform, Everyone's Terrible, F/M, Fear Play, Female Reader, Non-Consensual Touching, Possessive Behavior, Reader Is Not Chara, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reverse Harem, Self Insert, Self-Indulgent, Tentacles, This fic isn't meant to be taken seriously, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, borderline crack fic, no set plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-10-25 02:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20716430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedEyedRyu/pseuds/RedEyedRyu
Summary: Either you're dreaming, hallucinating, or dead because you don't know how else to explain your current predicament. Seriously, justhowdo you explain suddenly appearing in an unfamiliar (not to mention absolutelyfilthy) basement full of more tech bits than a computer repair shop?Oh, and also the skeleton. You know, the one from that one game? The one that got into Smash but only kind of? But maybe you should rephrase that to skeletonsbecause it looks like the many iterations of him and his brother are here, too.





	1. WTF

**Author's Note:**

> I have absolutely _zero_ impulse control so when this idea hit me at like midnight last night, ofc I immediately loaded up Google Docs and started to write it out. I s2g I'll get to updating my existing fics... eventually. :T
> 
> <strike>i'msosorry</strike>

Life just has a way with tossing the most unhelpful, unreal, and troubling of scenarios at you, doesn't it?

Like, for example, a stray rock on the highway flung at an excessively high speed at your windshield, splintering the glass into a spiderweb of cracks. A beloved pet that’s suddenly struck down with a debilitating sickness. Or perhaps a portion of your ceiling collapsing after a storm due to a previously unknown bald spot in the roof’s shingles. Maybe something happens that lands you in the ER.

Vexing situations, all varying in intensity and severity, that force you to face responsibility, to act the part of a semi-competent adult while you are left cursing life and all its unexpected curve-balls. But as the saying goes, that's life, right? Just let it go, roll with the punches and just keep truckin’ on.

And sure, that's fine. You can pretend, can put on a façade of competence and make yourself _ seem _ like the adultiest of adults.

And yet…

What about those devious and dastardly pitches that life sometimes decides to throw? When things are dialed to a hundred and you're left questioning where you stand on the bridge between reality and unreality. Between sanity and insanity.

You have to wonder… what are you supposed to do? When there’s no precedence, no wiki-how on how to navigate the obscure, unrealistic unknown.

Just how are you supposed to react in this kind of situation? A hint would be greatly appreciated. A walkthrough would be even better.

It begins like this:

You find yourself in a completely different environment to where you had been not one second ago. Between one moment of chilling in the comfort of your own home (in your computer chair; a comfy lounge; your bed; the apartment’s balcony; amongst the wilting grass of the backyard) and the next, you're suddenly tumbling, body displaced and shifted into a completely different space.

There is no stretching or twisting nor bending of light, no pitch black abyss, no split-second peeks into an in-between world. Simply here one moment and there the next.

You stumble and trip over yourself. Your arms flail and your body twists and you try to right yourself, overcompensating and undercompensating all at once. Your struggling ultimately ends in vain as you wind up a heap on the floor. You think you might have yelped, or screamed, or released any number of verbal expletives in your shock. You don't know. Regardless, it doesn't take long for you to realize something’s different, something’s _ wrong _ and that _ this isn't your floor _. There are dust bunnies all over the place, shriveled up corpses of long dead insects tucked away in the crevices between unfamiliar desks and cardboard boxes full of mystery wires and computer components. There’s a crumpled up bag of popato chisps off to the side, with an equally crumpled brown paper bag with an obscured logo not too far from that.

The first thing that crosses your mind is: Gross. The second: What the fuck. And the third: _ What the fuck. _And in no particular numerical order does the thought cross your mind that something about that garbage seems oddly familiar. 

Not one to take things lying down (and honestly, this floor is just down-right nasty, you really don't want to keep smooshing your face against it) you push yourself up from the disgusting concrete floor into a seated position, legs folded beneath you, palm rubbing away at the filth on your face, and take in your surroundings.

A basement.

A bit cliché, you can't help but note, but hey, could be worse, right? So far you're not seeing any torture devices, no bondage sex dungeon paraphernalia, and no blood stains or bodies (the dead bugs don’t count). There are, however, heaps upon heaps of cardboard boxes full of electrical components, gutted electronics, and various power tools spread across a workspace that seemingly encompasses the entirety of the basement. There are several desks and tables pushed up against walls, their tops full of this and that. Just lots and lots of junk. 

Basically the place is a hot mess.

Very relatable.

You shift to get up and you absolutely do not spook yourself when your back brushes against something solid. That shrill yelp? That wasn't you, nope, not at all. You merely whipped around because you had yet to check the space behind you. And honestly, it wasn't anything special, just a lame boiler looking thing with a sparking, exposed electrical panel. Probably shouldn't touch that.

It's just as you're bent over, hands on your knees and readying to push into a stand, when the strangest thing happens.

Your skin tingles, hair standing on end, and you're briefly reminded of how the air feels during a storm: charged, powerful, _ dangerous _. And then suddenly you're no longer alone in the nasty mess of a basement with the precariously sparking boiler-thing and strangely familiar garbage.

You squint your eyes, mouth dropping open as you mouth a silent, _ “what????” _ And yes, all four of those question marks are completely necessary to convey your complete and utter confusion. Other than that, though, you merely gawk.

You're not sure how you're supposed to react to what you're seeing. No, really. How are you supposed to react to this? Stare like an idiot, apparently, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. Maybe catch a few flies with your gaping gob.

And then it just stumbles out, your apparent tagline of, “What the fuck?” Because seriously. _ What the fuck?! _

It's not even Halloween and yet you're surrounded by skeletons. Very _ familiar _ skeletons. Very familiar _ fictional _ skeletons.

As the gears slowly, _ slowly _ churn about in your brain, something else clicks and you blurt a breathy, scandalized, “Popato chisps!” There’s a bit of a hysterical lilt to your voice but that's not important right now because _ popato chisps _!

The skeletons gathered before you all twitch at the sudden exclamation and more than a few look entirely confused as you go on to say, “They're fuckin’. _ Popato chisps. _ ” As if that explains anything. And maybe for them it doesn't but for you? For you it explains _ everything_. And that being that life really, really, _ really _ needs to stop throwing you curve-balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You stop that, life!


	2. Hmmm...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if I told you that your whole existence is nothing more than a creation meant to entertain people?  
What if I told you that you're not even the original, that you're just some recolored imitation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look! Another chapter! And it hasn't even been a day! Amazing, I know. Who knows when the next one'll come though.

So. This is apparently a thing that's happening. And you’re pretty sure it really is because those slaps to the face didn't exactly feel pleasant. Neither did the pinches. Your company is probably questioning your state of mind after that display and honestly? That's fair because you're currently doing the same thing.

The proverbial “they” say you can't feel pain in a dream but what if your brain is just _ really good _ at playing pretend? It'd make more sense than this—sitting on a thread bare, obnoxious green sofa that doesn't make you think of a very certain event in a very certain game. The skeletons kind of drive that point hard enough, you don't need more reminders, thank you. 

Someone clears their …throat? Whatever, the sound is made and it draws your attention, your eyes drifting to one skeleton in particular out of the three—the Classic™ one.

“heya,” he says and oh boy, that is a really deep voice. Very nice, very rumbly. You could listen to it for hours, you think. “what’re uh… what’re ya doin’ down here, bud?”

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, fingers pinching and pulling and scratching at the suede fabric of the couch you are sat on. It’s wedged off to the side of the safety hazard that is the sparking boiler-thing, just near enough for you to have dazedly stumbled over to.

“Hallucinating, I think,” you eventually reply as you continue to fidget. The fingers of one hand slip and you accidentally stab the side of your thigh with a particularly sharp nail. You don't so much as react to the stabbing pain. “Or maybe I'm actually having some kind of mental break?” 

You watch (see: blatantly ogle) as the skeleton’s expression shifts, his sockets pinching as his brow furrows, as that perpetual grin of his dips at the corners. He pulls his shoulders in a shrug, that iconic blue hoodie of his bunching and creasing with the motion.

You never did get around to ordering one of those. Too bad, it looks really comfy.

“gonna be honest, kid,” that deep, soothing bass breaks through the wandering of your mind. “wasn't expecting to see a human down here.”

“Didn’t really expect to _ be _ down here,” you shoot back. You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nose as you slouch and violently throw yourself back against the couch. Your arms flail as you rant, “There’re bags of _ popato chisps _ and _ Grillby’s _ takeout bags and talking skeletons and couches from video games and _ nothing is making any sense! _” An arm lays across your face, shielding your eyes, as the opposite lays bent above your head.

There’s an awkward stretch of silence, though you're pretty sure you hear the ruffling of fabric, the _ sktch _ of someone’s shoes coasting along the filthy floor. And then,

“uh… what?”

Your arms shoot up, fingers splayed, and you glare at the ceiling as you shout,” Video games, Sans! Video games!!” You pull yourself back into a proper seated position and meet the eyes (eye sockets??) of the vanilla bean. Oh. Huh. He’s doing that pitch black eye socket thing. Looks like the edgy bastard behind him is doing it too. Maybe the tall one is as well. You can't tell with Papyrus types--sometimes they have eyelights, sometimes they don't. Oh well.

“What?” Your brows furrow and you purse your lips as you tell them to, “Stop doing that eye-thing at me.”

They don't listen, of course. Just continue to creepily, silently stare at you.

“Stop it!” you demand, and in an effort to get them to cease and desist, bring your hands together in a rather forceful clap. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the way they jolt at the noise.

Sans clears his non-existent throat again, then he shuffles in place, before finally, “how’d ya know my name, kid?”

You quirk a brow.

“What? You're telling me most people _ wouldn't _ recognize the brother of monsterkind’s mascot?” Hey, look at that, he really _ does _ sweat blue magic. Neat. “Aren't there only like two skeletons in all of existence? Your alternate copies don't count.”

Op. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say ‘cause the voided eye sockets are back again.

“Hey, no! You stop that!” You snap your fingers several times in quick succession and thankfully, it seems to work.

”I mean… Y’all _ are _ on the surface, right? This _ is _ a post-pacifist ending timeline, right? It usually is in these kind of scenarios.”

And before the sweating Sans so much as squeaks, you hear a rumbling growl, see a blur of reds and black, and then you’re being pinned to the sofa. Underfell Sans is literally right up in your grill, his snarling, sharp-toothed face mere inches from yours.

“th’ fuck kinda shit’re you spoutin’, ya sack a’ shit?”

Oh. This is awkward. Not to mention uncomfortable. He’s practically kabedon’d you, arms on either side of your head, a sneakered foot precariously positioned between your legs.

Kinky.

His voice is pretty nice, too; a deep bass like his vanilla counterpart, though there’s an edge to it that the blue-clad skeleton’s clearly lacks. You think you could listen to this guy's voice for hours too.

You sink into the couch a bit, entirely unimpressed, and shift your weight to the side, bringing up a hand to push against his arm, and slide to the side, out from under him. Your nonchalance seems to catch him off guard as he just stares, befuddled, as you casually extricate yourself, resettling against the arm of the couch.

“C’mon,” you start, gaze shifting from Underfell, to Undertale, to Underswap, “you're smarter than that. You can pick up on the context clues, can't you?”

“the machine…” Your gaze shifts back to the tall, lanky skeleton still standing towards the back as he speaks. His voice is definitely somewhere in the tenor range, though it’s a bit raspy. It's nice, but nowhere near as smooth, broadcasting quality as Sans's is. “you're from an alternate timeline.”

He sounds so convinced, so sure of his deduction. You? Not so much.

“Mmm… something like that? I guess?”

The edgy skeleton beside you shifts, lowers his arms from the couch and instead just… lets himself flop into the cushions. The action causes you to jostle slightly.

“whadda ya mean, ‘summin’ like that’?” he all but growls, scowling at you.

“I mean what I mean. It's _ something like that _ but not quite? Because uh…” You drag your eyes from one skeleton to the next and then back again before shifting your gaze to the left and right. Man, this place is an absolute pigsty. “Because _ hmmm _….”

Sans, the Classic™ one, chooses that moment to re-engage with the conversation. He lets loose a world weary sigh and plops onto the other end of the couch, sandwiching his Underfell variant between the two of you.

“‘hmmm’?” he prompts.

“Yes, _ hmmm _ ,” you respond, face scrunching up in thought. Well, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag (not that it was ever really _ in _ one to begin with) so. What’ve you got to lose?

“It's a game,” you begin and you don't miss the way they all seem to snap to attention. “_ Undertale _, by the way. That's what it's called. Came out a few years ago. Actually just had its what… fourth anniversary the other week?”

Underswap Papyrus, likely envious of everyone else sitting but him, comes over to the couch and props himself against the opposite arm. “so… what. we’re just a buncha video game characters to you?” He appears to be frowning as he fishes a honey sucker from his hoodie pouch pocket and wedges the treat between his teeth.

“Mmmmmmm… no. Not exactly. Sans—the _ original _ one—” and you point to the blue-clad skeleton, “is technically the only video game character. Which by the way, congratulations on making it into Smash, even if it’s just as a costume.”

Sans’s expression twists in confusion, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his skull as he responds, voice slightly higher pitched, “…thanks?” He has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You’re welcome. But as I was saying, Sans is the original, the main branch, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with that particular analogy. You,” and you point to the Papyrus, who quirks a brow, “and you,” you point to the scowling, sharp-toothed Sans whose scowl only tightens in response, “are from AUs—Alternate Universes created by fans curious about different takes on canon. Underswap and Underfell, respectively.”

It occurs to you, then, that maybe you should go at this a little lighter, maybe don’t be so blunt about everything… but. Well… you don’t really know how _ else _ to lay this down. You’ll apologize about any existential crises you induce later, you guess—asking for forgiveness over permission and all that. Besides, it’s not like _ you _ asked for this situation to unfold, either; it’s not like _ you _ know what the hell is going on. You’re pretty much in the same boat as these jokers.

The skeleton seated beside you growls (he likes to do that a lot, doesn’t he?) and twists to face you, the little lights in his eye sockets burning red hot. 

“s’what? we’re s’posed t’believe yer a human from sum kinna reality where we ain’t even real? jus’ summin made up fer yer own sick entertainment?”

You recoil at the sheer animosity in his voice, back sinking into the worn padding of the couch’s arm. It’s a miracle you don’t just tumble over the side of the thing, honestly, with how far you pull away.

“Uh… I mean. No? You’re free to believe whatever you want but it’s not like I just decided to break into some random dingy basement in my lounge clothes for shits and giggles.”

He just stares at you, his scowl tightening, his sockets creasing and his face just absolutely _ scrunching _in anger before he’s just. Gone. Poof! Shortcutted right the fuck outta here.

Well.

That was a thing that happened.

You can empathize with the guy to a certain degree but well. You don’t exactly want to spend too much energy thinking about things. Not right now. Like a lot of things in your life, you’ll deal with it later.

Brushing that exchange aside, you find yourself releasing a lot of pent up tension you hadn’t realized you were holding onto (in your shoulders, your neck, back, even your _ jaw _) and address the two remaining skeletons still sat with you. Sans doesn’t appear to be sweating anymore, though he does look like he’s thinking something over. Underswap Papyrus is much the same, though he’s taken to fiddling with the stick of his honey sucker.

“So hey,” you start, effectively drawing their attention, “got any popato chisps?”

You want to know if they taste any different from regular potato chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader: Let's just bottle this all up for later. That's a totally perfect, reasonable, healthy way to deal with things!   
Reader:   
Reader:   
Reader: Yup.


	3. Uh...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, popato chisps~!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more of whatever this is, I guess. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Popato chisps, as it turns out to your complete and utter disappointment, do _ not _ taste all that different from regular potato chips. The weird fizzy, pop-rock like sensation and the way they kind of just… disappear when you swallow is pretty neat, though. A monster food thing, no doubt. Still, talk about a letdown. Doesn't mean you're gonna stop eating them though, as you proceed to stuff yet another into your mouth. They even crunch like a regular potato chip.

“YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE THIS? THAT THIS… THIS _ HUMAN _ IS FROM SOME PLANE OF EXISTENCE WHERE THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE ME IS NOTHING MORE THAN FICTION? SOMETHING _ CREATED _ BY SUCH A WEAK AND FEEBLE RACE?!”

You talk around the chisp you just shoved into your mouth and bring a hand to your chest, a mockery of being flattered. “Aw, love you too, boss,” you say in an overly sweet voice and as the very tall, very loud, very _ edgy _ skeleton proceeds to sputter and cough and choke at your words, you simply shove another two chisps into your mouth. He’s shouting, boots stomping against the linoleum of the kitchen floor, but you’re already tuning him out.

Sans and the Underswap Papyrus had shuffled you up the basement stairs and into the kitchen, talking amongst themselves about needing to call a house meeting. As it just so happened, your additional company had already been present, apparently preparing some meal or another. It didn't smell like burnt rubber or vinegar so you’re hoping this is one of those takes where the Papyruses and Swap Sans aren't absolutely terrible when it comes to cooking, that they've had enough time to improve and learn that no, glitter is _ not _ a key ingredient.

Underfell Papyrus, Swapfell Sans, and regular ol’ Papyrus had been the lucky ones to welcome the newest party crasher (that's you, by the way) to the house. Papyrus had given a rather enthusiastic welcome, complete with bone-crushing (heh) hug. The Fell variants, being not so touchy feely, had merely scowled at you and turned up their skulls in that pretentious manner they’re often presented as being.

Goodness, it was all just so surreal.

You had to tell yourself not to stare because that's rude. Play it off, act as cool as the coolest cucumber. And so you had walked over to the nearby table sat in the middle of the large kitchen and plopped into a seat. Breezily, yet _ politely _ because you're no mannerless heathen, you had asked for a bag of popato chisps and Papyrus had all but gasped, affronted that you would choose to eat something so unhealthy—and so soon before dinner! But Sans had shot him some kind of look and the skeleton had ultimately acquiesced. He hadn't done so happily, of course, as he had none too quietly muttered this and that about poor eating habits as he fished a bag from the pantry.

You thanked him when he begrudgingly handed the snack bag to you and had proceeded to munch away while Sans and the Swap Papyrus set about explaining just why exactly a human had trudged up from their basement—and in such lazy attire, no less!

So that leads us back to the present. Underfell Papyrus appears to be taking the news the worst so far, you think. You're not sure, though, he's a hard one to read. Too tsun, too soon.

“SO, HUMAN,” another voice speaks up just as you toss the last popato chisp into your mouth. Judging by the deep, rough rumble not unlike Underfell Sans’s, loud though it may be, you guess it's the only other Sans in the kitchen that is addressing you. When you direct your attention to the source, you are proud to say your deductive skills aren't complete crap.

The Swapfell Sans variant has taken to standing at the table across from you, arms folded over his chest. His sockets are squinted and he's taking advantage of the fact you are sitting down, giving him the height advantage to sneer down at you. Pretentious prick.

Stop being so hot.

“Yes, skeleton,” you reply. His face scrunches up like he smelled something bad and you just smile. 

“WHAT DO _ YOU _ HAVE TO SAY ON THIS MATTER?” You're not sure how to interpret his tone, nor that question. It sounds like an accusation? Almost as if you're being scolded.

“Uh… Not exactly sure what you mean by that, but uhm… _ hmm _ .” You fuss with the popato chisps bag, neatly folding it in on itself—in half, a quarter, an eighth, a sixteenth. “Whether or not you believe me, it's the truth. Where I'm from y’all’re nothing more than fiction and fantasy.” You’re not avoiding meeting their eyes, you're just _ very _interested in this folded up popato chisps bag. It's just so cool. Yup.

The skeleton clicks his tongue and you think you hear the sound of boots tapping out an impatient rhythm.

“PROVE IT,” he says.

That succeeds in drawing your attention.

“Uh…?”

“UNLESS, OF COURSE, YOU ARE _ LYING _?” Ah, there's that smug, condescending leer again. You squint at him.

“I'm not lying.”

He waves a hand at you, a signal to, “GO ON, THEN. PROVE IT.”

Your face creases in a rather extreme pout, a breathy exhale forced through your nose. Fine, be that way you pretentious, sexy piece of shit.

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair.

“Well. That’s… there is… there are so many different takes on the AUs that there’s no guarantee anything I say will necessarily add up.” You cast a glance towards Sans, noting he and the rest of the ensemble have paused in whatever bickering they had been involved with with Underfell Papyrus, to listen to you speak. You take that as your cue. “I guess I'll start with the source material. Though bear in mind it's been at least a year or so since I've last played…”

You close your eyes and take a slow, deep breath. You exhale just as slowly, attention once more returned to the folded up popato chisps bag as your fingers itch for something to keep busy with.

Whelp. Here goes.

“Undertale is a pixel RPG style game. Its premise being that you don't _ have _ to fight. It's a game where your choices matter, and you can choose whether to fight and kill monsters or show them nothing but mercy.” From your peripheral, you don't miss the way Swapfell Sans’s face tightens, nor the way Sans’s posture seems to tense. “You play as a kid whose name you set in the beginning but eventually learn to be named Frisk, who is their own person separate from you, the player. They essentially act as your vessel.

“They fell into the Unground and start in the Ruins, in a bed of golden flowers. You proceed a room over and are introduced to Flowey. In Swapped universes it's often a toss-up between it still being Flowey, a Temmie, or even Monster Kid. Just depends on who’s writing the story.

“So anyway, you proceed through the Ruins. You meet Toriel, who bakes you a butterscotch cinnamon pie in most routes. When you try to leave she tells you about Asgore and how he’ll kill you if you go through the doors leading to the rest of the Underground. He's done so to all those that preceded you, afterall. So you fight Toriel and then trek towards Snowdin from there.” You pointedly don't look at Sans when you say, “You meet Sans just before a bridge and the whole thing is built up to unsettle you. You cross a stick in the middle of the path that winds up cracking behind you, you hear footsteps in the snow but no one’s there, and when you get to the bridge he’s all,” and here you do a poor imitation of Sans’s deep voice, “ ‘H u m a n. Don't you know how to greet a new pal? Turn around and shake my hand.’ It's a cutscene so your character does that and then a rather long, drawn out whoopie cushion fart sound clip plays.” You hear a couple chuckles off to the side. “Things happen, you hide behind a conveniently shaped lamp, you meet Papyrus, you go through Snowdin. You fight Papyrus, get locked in a shed, then proceed through Waterfall and are dogged by Undyne the entire time… you fight her then you go on to Hotland and all its conveyor belts, steam vents, and lasers. Talk to Alphys and fight Mettaton on his ridiculous show… several times. Then it's what… onto the CORE? The soundtrack there’s really neat. So you make your way through the CORE and you wind up fighting Mettaton Ex and the fight's broadcast throughout the entire Underground? So you beat him and then you're in New Home and you wind up getting the tragic backstory for the King and Queen’s kids. Then you fight Asgore… and after that you fight Flowey. And once that's done you've beaten the game. The ending varies depending on what route you're on and the choices you made.” You decide not to say it also depends on which monsters are still left alive.

You’re bending and twisting the piece of garbage in your hands, a bit nervous for whatever reason to meet anyone’s eyes. Honestly, what are you afraid of?

The room is utterly silent—so quiet, in fact, that you would undoubtedly be able to hear the proverbial pin drop. You take a hesitant peek up at your company and your cheeks heat up and there’s a tingling sensation that crawls down your back as you catch the voided stare of the skeletons around you.

You don't know why but you feel compelled to rush out that, “I only ever managed to do neutral pacifist and true pacifist runs…” before quickly averting your gaze back to the mutilated snack bag. Heck. Why aren't they saying anything? They're the ones who asked! And it's not like _ you _ did anything! _ You _didn't bring yourself here, didn't put yourself into this impossible scenario!

_ Someone say something already! _

There's a loud clap and you're ashamed to admit that you very nearly jump out of your seat at the abrupt noise.

“WELL!” Papyrus speaks up, drawing your attention. “I BELIEVE THE HUMAN! THEIR STORY CERTAINLY DOES ADD UP WITH WHAT TRANSPIRED HERE, WITH OUR HUMAN FRIEND. DOESN’T IT, BROTHER?”

_ Oh bless your beautiful, sweet bones, Papyrus! _

All eyes turn to Sans and oh boy. He's doing that blank eye socket thing _ and _ he’s sweating.

“y-yeah,” he eventually manages as he brings a bony palm to scrape across the top of his skull. “yeah, paps is right, it checks out.”

Your shoulders slump as tension leaves you. Man, you're going to wind up with all kinds of knots at this rate. The errant thought of whether or not skeletons would be good at giving massages crosses your mind but you stuff it down. Now’s not the time. Maybe later. …maybe.

“WELL. BE THAT AS IT MAY,” Swapfell Sans begins, “THAT DOES NOT EXPLAIN HER APPEARANCE HERE, NOR WHAT SHALL BE DONE WITH HER.”

A cold chill rushes down your spine and your stomach flips. They're not going to throw you out, are they?

Op. There's that tension again.

You shift your gaze to Papyrus, eyes pleading.

“WELL OF COURSE SHE WILL STAY HERE, WITH US!”

Oh sweet baby Jesus, Papyrus you are a _ saint_. That's it, he is absolutely your new favorite.

Underfell Papyrus, on the other hand… he sputters. “I SHOULD THINK NOT!” he protests, gloved hands slamming onto the table. You don't jolt at that, you _ don't _. “WE DON'T EVEN KNOW THIS HUMAN AND YOU WOULD SUGGEST WE KEEP IT HERE? WHERE WE ARE MOST VULNERABLE? PREPOSTEROUS!”

Your brows furrow.

“What?” It's not like you're going to try and dust them in their sleep or anything, what the heck, man.

“OH YOU HEARD ME, HUMAN. I AM WELL AWARE OF YOUR KIND, HOW CONNIVING YOU CAN BE.”

You mouth a silent, “what?” Because… _ what? _

“Uh… I mean. Not that I'm… not uh… flattered? That you’re apparently so intimidated by me but… I wouldn't… I uh… I'm not an asshole.”

Oh dang. Are his cheeks turning red?

… 

Holy shit???

They _ are! _

“I AM NOT _ INTIMIDATED _ BY SOMEONE AS WEAK AND PATHETIC AS YOU!” he denies, booted foot slamming against the linoleum as he stands straight, arms crossing over his chest. “I AM MERELY BEING CAUTIONS, WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY FOR THESE GULLIBLE, IDIOTIC CREAMPUFFS!” 

There’s a chuckle, low and deep and sexy. Your eyes flit to Swapfell Sans. There’s an amused air about him, his sharp-toothed grin more relaxed than before.

“I AM NOT AGAINST THE HUMAN STAYING HERE. OF COURSE WE WOULD NEED THE REST OF THE HOUSE TO WEIGH IN ON THE DECISION, BUT SHE IS CLEARLY NO THREAT. SHOULD SHE TRY ANYTHING, SHE WOULD BE EASY ENOUGH TO DISPATCH.”

“Uh… thanks? …I think??” You're a bit on the fence with that reasoning. Also isn't that kind of a threat?

“TCH. SUIT YOURSELVES,” Underfell Papyrus sneers. “BUT DO NOT COME CRYING TO ME WHEN IT ATTEMPTS TO DUST YOU IN YOUR SLEEP.” And much like his brother had in the basement, the edgy skeleton makes an abrupt exit.

Funny how he had voiced your thought, though.

“Should… I be worried about him?” you ask the room.

You're a bit surprised when Underswap Papyrus speaks up, as he had been rather quiet since coming up from the basement. “nah, he’s just a worrywart.”

“I… if you say so…” You're not entirely convinced but, well. Your options _ are _ kind of limited.

You're about to ask something else when a rather shrill _ BEEEEEP _ cuts through the kitchen.

“AH. THAT WOULD BE DINNER.” Swapfell Sans announces. He turns away from the table and all of you grouped there, to attend to the oven.

And it's only after he says something that you finally register the rather pleasant scent wafting through the air. It entices your hunger, your mouth watering as your stomach grumbles quietly. Popato chisps aren't very filling, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader: Feed me.
> 
> If you use tumblr, you can find me there @ [redeyedryu](https://redeyedryu.tumblr.com/). Feel free to come talk to me about stupid, hot skeletons.


	4. The Outcodes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some skeletons like to hold hands.
> 
> Some like to make you fear for your life.
> 
> Others yet like to ask all the questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, more of this hot mess!

So. This is awkward.

You're currently sat at the head of the main dining table in the dining room just off to the side of the kitchen. Sans, Papyrus, and his Underswap doppelgänger are stood beside and behind you, Papyrus resting a reassuring hand upon your shoulder.

Stars, have you mentioned how much you love this skeleton yet? Because holy hell is he burning a hole through your heart.

Seated around the table are several other skeletons. A few more than you were expecting, really; some you weren't expecting to see at all. Like the outcode skeletons Ink and Error. 

You’d nearly choked at seeing those two. They're not often included in these kind of scenarios, after all. You have to wonder what that means and how it might affect you, if at all. You, a creator; Ink, the protector of AUs; Error, the _ destroyer _ of AUs. However, just like everything else that has transpired in the last hour or so, you shove the thought away, shelving it for later (and what you mean by this is actually never, if you can help it).

Those two aside there are the typical bunch—the “classics” in this kind of story: Underswap, Underfell (and ho boi, those two don't look like they've eased up at all), and Swapfell. You're an odd mix of elated and apprehensive at the inclusion of the Horrortale brothers, who are sat at the head opposite you. Horrortale Sans is doing his creepy smiley thing, phalanges tapping out a dull rhythm as he just stares at you. His brother, seated comfortably beside him (because this table is _ huge_—it needs to fit twelve, after all) is all smiles. And hey, are those braces? You hope that means they're being treated well. A lot of stories wind up giving that particular pair of brothers hell.

You miss the way Horrortale Sans’s bloated red eye-light narrows at your inspection of his brother, your attention abruptly being drawn back to Papyrus as he squeezes the meat of your shoulder. He clears his non-existent throat and calls out to the room:

“HELLO, EVERYONE! BEFORE WE ‘DIG IN’, WE HAVE EXCITING NEWS WE WOULD LIKE TO SHARE!” Papyrus pauses to look down at you and the way he smiles so reassuringly—his sockets closing as he smiles so incredibly wide—sets something tingling in your chest, soft and warm and fuzzy. Damn skeleton is too precious for his own good. Stop being so damn _ adorable_, Papyrus!

“I AM SURE YOU ARE ALL WONDERING AS TO WHY THERE IS A STRANGE, NEW HUMAN SEATED WITH US.” 

Op. Moment ruined.

Your cheeks heat up and your ears burn. Really, Papyrus? Is that the best descriptor you can come up with? “Strange”? Thanks, mister, way to make a woman feel special.

The room goes silent, save for the idle drumming of Horrortale Sans’s fingers. Nevertheless, Papyrus continues.

“PLEASE WELCOME THE NEWEST ADDITION TO OUR EVER-GROWING HOUSEHOLD…” and here he flounders for a moment, as if he’s forgotten something. Or perhaps is waiting? He’s looking at you expectantly for some reason…? Oh! Right! You have yet to give them your name, haven't you? …or have you? You can't remember.

You turn your attention back to the table at large, eyes drifting from one skeleton to the next. And if you keep focusing back on Ink and Error well… that’s just a coincidence. They _ are _ seated just to the left of you…

You give a brief introduction, a simple, “Heya,” along with your name and hope that’ll be that, that you can all just move on and not ask questions and just eat the heavenly smelling pasta dish set before you. The salad isn't looking half bad, either. But of course things can't be that easy; life can't be that nice.

It's Ink that speaks up, sockets wide and curious. There’s a yellow star in his left eye socket and a blue rectangle in his right. He’s leaning forward in his seat, arms crossed on the table.

“Oh? What kind of AU are you from,” he asks and you think you might have broken out into a cold sweat. Your shoulders are tense again, that's for sure.

_ Please stop talking to me… _

“I haven't been to very many of the ‘monsters are humans’ ones,” he continues on, oblivious to your unease. “Are you a Sans? Or a Papyrus?”

Oh! Yes! Let’s go with that! Just… just let him come up with his own assumptions! That'll keep things from being too… _ strange _(to borrow Papyrus’s word choice) between you and the outcodes.

But. Well. We _ did _ just mention how nothing could be easy. So when Papyrus announces, loud enough for absolutely _ everyone _ to hear, “WHY INK, SHE ISN’T EITHER!” you start to shrink down into your seat with a groan.

_ Papyrus, for the love of all that is sacred and holy in this world, _ ** _please stop talking_**_!! _

He doesn't, of course, just keeps on digging your grave deeper and deeper. Is it too late to rescind your love and praise for this skeleton? 

“IN FACT, SHE HAS INFORMED US THAT NOT ONLY IS SHE NOT FROM THIS UNIVERSE, SHE ISN'T FROM ANY ALTERNATE UNIVERSE OR TIMELINE AT ALL!”

You don't miss the way Ink and Error respond to that. Ink’s brows furrow and as he blinks, a yellow question mark and orange exclamation point light up his sockets. His mouth parts in what you think is shocked confusion, as if he’s trying to puzzle out what, exactly, Papyrus’s words mean.

Error, meanwhile, who had previously been so nonchalant, so disinterested and disengaged from the conversation, jolts, and his jetblack skull tilts ever so slightly in your direction. Those off-color pips of light in his sockets drag so very slowly, so very _ deliberately _towards you. If you weren't sweating before, you sure as hell are now. At least it doesn’t glow like a skeleton’s.

Oh, how the tables have tabled.

Maybe you really _ shouldn’t _ have been so blasé about your origins, earlier.

Unaware of your inner turmoil, Papyrus just continues on. “APPARENTLY SHE IS FROM A REALITY IN WHICH WE DO NOT EXIST AS ANYTHING MORE THAN FICTION!” He proudly proclaims, and if he wasn't still holding your shoulder, you would have slipped down your chair and out under the table in a mad dash to get away from… _ whatever _ you're sure is about to go down. Maybe you can will yourself into a puddle of regret if you try hard enough.

You hear a haughty _ HMPH! _ and a less than pleased _ tch _from down the table that only slightly distracts you from planning your escape. Without looking, you can't say for sure who it is, but you'd put money down on it being the Underfell brothers. They were the saltiest skeletons you had met thus far, after all. But you're not exactly in the mood to face them or press your luck. No, you’d much rather be anywhere than here right now, thank you.

Unfortunately, before you can put any half-baked plans into action, Error speaks up. An unnamed, primal fear tingles along your spine at his voice. Like all other Sans his voice is low, deep, and has a bit of a rumble to it, though there is some kind of static—a bit of a disjointed hitch—to it; it’s almost like listening to a radio skipping through frequencies. “T͘͢h̨͢ą-t̸h̸a̷ţ ̷so-o̷?͝” he says, and it doesn’t come out as a question. That unrestrained, primal fear races through your veins, down to your fingers and toes. You tense in your seat and you’re sure Papyrus, whose hand is still laid upon your shoulder, can feel how on edge you are. You can’t help thinking Error’s words came out like an accusation.

You don’t respond, merely purse your lips and clench your jaw. There’s a large opening into another room off to the right. It’s only a few feet away from where you’re sat. Error would have to vault the table to get at you and there would likely be at least a _ few _ skeletons that would try to stop him. There’s gotta be a door some-

Oh.

What?

Someone’s… someone’s holding your hand??

Once again you are distracted from planning your salvation, this time by Ink. His eye sockets are blown wide and the lights in them are burning bright, one a neon green triangle and the other a yellow swirl. He’s grinning wide and he’s holding onto you so _ tight_.

“You’re a _ Creator__?”_ he breathes and oof. No. Don’t say it, Ink, _ don’t say it out loud. _ You pointedly don’t look at Error, too busy trying to tamp down the sudden rising panic in your gut. Or maybe that’s acid? You’re not going to throw up, are you? Crap. You don’t want to deal with this right now. You _ can’t _ deal with this. Why can’t he just let you ignore the reality of the situation?

You tell yourself not to say anything, try to pull your hand back, but his grip is so strong, he won’t let go, _ why won’t he let go? _

Against your wishes, you eke out a strained, nearly squeaked, “Uhm?”

Apparently that’s as good an admission as any for Ink because he just starts _ laughing_. It’s a deep, full bodied chuckle.

“Isn’t that _ great_, Error? She’s a _ Creator! _”

Oh god. No, please stop. He’s signing your death warrant right now, isn't he? Damn outcode skeleton! You’re not fooled by his stupid, adorable, inkbloted smiling face. _ You know his true colors. _

“T͘-tch.̨ ̧Ju-j͡us̢t a̵ ̡di͟r̢t͏-͟dįr͜ty̶ ͜h̛ac͢k̷e͞r-͝er.” Error grumbles.

You chance a glance at him—just a quick, split-second peek—and for a moment you just.

Blank.

He’s not looking at you.

He’s back to his earlier disinterested nonchalance. You let out a relieved sigh, a veritable weight lifting from your chest. He doesn’t care about you. Holy shit you don’t think you could be any more relieved right now. You had honestly thought you were dead for a moment there. Guess you were over-reacting? You _ are _good at doing that.

Another sigh escapes as you just bask in the fact Error’s not paying you any further mind, that he’s just brushed you off.

“Yeah,” you reply softly, slouching into your seat. And then jolt because, “I-I mean no! No, I’m not! I'm not a ‘hacker’! I mean yes I guess you could say I'm a creator in the very loosest of senses…” Oh god, why are you talking? _ Stop talking_, didn’t you tell yourself _ not to talk to these two? _ You're not helping yourself—you don’t need to explain anything!

But you just. Keep. Talking.

“I’ve never finished any of the AUs I began-” and here, for the briefest of moments, you think you feel Ink’s grip on your hand tighten ever so uncomfortably but decide to ignore it, “-I just. Just draw things… every now and again. Sometimes I um. Sometimes I… write… stuff.” You avoid looking at any of the skeletons, your free hand clenching into a fist in your lap. You hope they’ll leave it at that because how do you tell a room full of grown ass men that you spend a significant amount of your free time writing wish fulfillment fantasies about them? Simple answer: you _ don’t _.

You hear a chuckle from down the table and can't keep yourself from looking. Swapfell Sans is making a poor attempt at stifling his laughter. He catches your gaze and lifts a socket in a knowing glance. Dear lord, he can't read your mind, can he? He’s not a telepath …right?

You’re obviously emoting something because he just grins this devious, <strike>delicious</strike> smirk before he lifts his wine glass to his serrated maw and takes a sip, all the while never breaking your gaze.

_ He fucking knows, doesn't he? _

But there’s no way. He’s totally just fucking with you, trying to get a rise out of you!

Yeah! Well! You’ll see about that!!

You don't hear the soft snort he lets loose at the heated pout you shoot him.

The Fell skeleton variant sets down his glass and clears his throat, drawing the room’s attention to him. And thank the stars above and below because you’re sure you've met your lifetime quota of being the center of attention. Now if only Papyrus and Ink would unhand you… 

“YES, YES, THIS IS ALL WELL AND INTERESTING,” Swapfell Sans’s voice cuts into the room, “BUT INTERROGATING THE HUMAN CAN WAIT UNTIL LATER, DON’T YOU THINK? IF THERE ARE ANY OBJECTIONS TO HER STAYING HERE, I SUGGEST YOU LOT HURRY IT UP. I DID NOT SLAVE AWAY IN THE KITCHEN FOR DINNER TO GO COLD.”

No one says anything initially and that's fine. Now that you're not actively fearing for your life, your hunger is reasserting itself. You haven’t even had your first helping and you’re already wondering if it would it be rude to ask for seconds because you're honestly _ravenous_. Guess stress makes you hungry.

Papyrus finally lets go of your shoulder (that’s one skeleton down) to take a seat beside you as his brother shuffles into a chair beside him, effectively sandwiching the tall skeleton between the two of you. Swap Papyrus goes to take the seat beside his brother, across the table from Ink and Error.

“WELL?” Swapfell Sans prompts, his tone impatient. If he had been standing, you're sure he would have been tapping an impatient boot.

There’s a hum to your right.

You look over to see Underswap Sans fidgeting in his seat, fiddling with a corner of his trademark baby blue bandanna.

“OUT WITH IT ALREADY,” Swapfell Sans grumbles.

“WELL.” Underswap Sans glances at you but quickly looks elsewhere when your eyes meet. “THE HUMAN INTRODUCED HERSELF, SHOULD WE NOT RECIPROCATE?”

Aw, precious, considerate bean.

Swapfell Sans seems to consider this a moment before he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the back of his chair. “IS IT NECESSARY TO INTRODUCE OURSELVES TO SOMEONE THAT APPARENTLY ALREADY KNOWS US?” He gives you a challenging look. “YOU _ ARE _ FAMILIAR WITH EVERYONE SEATED HERE, ARE YOU NOT?”

You feel Ink squeeze your hand and have to consciously resist yanking it free of his grasp. Seriously, why is he still clinging to you like the world’s most stubborn booger? And what’s with Swapfell Sans? What the hell, man, wasn’t he wanting to _ end _ this game of 20 questions? Is he _ still _ questioning the validity of your situation? Asshole. Stupid, hot, _ asshole_.

“Uh… yeah? Y’all’re pretty much the standard go-to AUs.”

“_ ALL _ OF US?” You hear Underswap Sans gasp.

“Yeeees…?” Why did that come out as a question? “I mentioned it a bit to Classic Sans and your brother, but Underswap—that’s the name of your AU—and Underfell (that’s the name of the AU the salty pair over by the other end of the table belong to) are probably the top two most popular AUs. Swapfell-” and here you point to the respective skeletons, “and Horrortale-” you choose to ignore the way Horrortale Sans’s crimson eyelight is narrowed as he glares at you, his grin tight and dangerous, “are pretty popular, too. Outertale used to be pretty big, same with Mafiatale—or Mobtale, either or. They might still be? I don’t exactly peruse the fandom like some people do. Don’t have the attention span or energy for it.”

Swap Sans is leaning forward and huh. His eye lights really _ do _ turn into stars. Cute. “WHAT ABOUT THOSE TWO?” he questions, nodding to Ink and Error. “WHAT’RE THEIR AUS LIKE? ANY TIME WE TRY TO ASK ABOUT IT THEY NEVER GIVE US A STRAIGHT ANSWER.”

A chill races up your spine.

Oh boy. Treading back into dangerous waters, are we?

You slowly, _ s l o w l y _ turn your attention back to the outcodes. Ink is smiling softly at you and _ dammit _ , you can’t _ read _ this fucker. Error, meanwhile, is looking at you out of the corner of his sockets. He smirks when he catches your gaze, clearly just _ daring _ you to say something. Your eyes drift from his mis-matched eyelights to the cobalt blue magic leaking from his sockets and down his zygomatic bones. If you think about it, he’s technically two AUs, isn’t he? …one long, drawn out AU? And what about Fatal_Error?

…

… 

… 

All you manage is an ever so eloquent, “Uhm.”

Oh man. Forget the masseuse, you’re going to need an entire day-long visit to the spa to ease all this tension from your body.

You settle for a stumbling non-answer of, “It’s uh… Yeah their AUs are… a thing.”

Swap Sans frowns at you, clearly unsatisfied. “AW, C’MON!” he pouts, “NOT YOU TOO, HUMAN!”

“Sorry, Blue,” you apologize, laughing nervously. Sure, you may know a bit about these skeletons and their AUs but you’re getting the feeling you might want to be a bit more tight-lipped about your knowledge than you have been. Especially if you like living. Which you do. Most days.

You go to rub at the back of your neck, a nervous tick you’ve never quite been able to overcome, only to be reminded that Ink’s still holding your hand. You purse your lips and give the skeleton a rather heated look because you’re starting to get _ real tired of this _. His grin just stretches.

What the fuck.

You stare at him and you’re pretty sure you’re full on ugly-scowling but at this point you don’t care. You would _ very much like your hand back, thank you! _ The bastard has other ideas, however, as he just holds your gaze, his sockets holding a rather gleeful tint.

You reiterate: _ What the fuck. _

Is this guy trippin’ on his paints or something?

He blinks and his eyelights shift to a rouge square and a soft red pentagon. You yank your hand one more time and he blinks again, his eyelights shifting to a loose mossy green shape and a bright yellow diamond. With that yank finally, _ finally _ Ink releases your hand. You’re quick to snatch it away and if you scoot a little closer to Papyrus… well. Who can blame you?

You gingerly rub your relinquished hand under the table and look to Swap Sans, only to startle at the absolute _ starstruck _ look he’s giving you.

“Uh…?”

He nearly vaults himself onto the table. His brother’s steadying hand upon his shoulder is likely the only thing that kept him from doing just that.

“YOU EVEN KNOW MY NICKNAME, HUMAN?!”

“Uhm…” You lean back into your chair, trying to hide behind Papyrus and Sans. If he can’t see you, he’ll forget you’re there, right?

“DO THE OTHERS!!” Blue demands as he grabs his brother’s arm. “DO PAPY!!” You bite your lower lip in a strained effort to contain a completely inappropriate laugh. You definitely did _ not _just interpret that in a completely different way than the excitable skeleton meant, nope. Your mind doesn’t live in the gutter, not at all.

…

…

…

Yup.

…

… 

… 

Man, so much for getting to the food before it goes cold.

You shoot a pointed glance to Swapfell Sans and he just fucking. Smirks at you. What is with these skeletons and their damn stupid grins? You’re starting to relate to Flowey’s “smiley trashbag” insult—smiley trashbags, the lot of ‘em!

You let loose a heavy, defeated sigh and say, “I’ll go over the nicknames I know but like I was telling some of y’all earlier, there’re so many different interpretations that it’s kind of hit or miss.”

Blue isn’t deterred in the slightest and the yet still challenging look Swapfell Sans is giving you seals it. Guess you’ve got no choice but to play along. Joy.

* * *

It’s nearly another ten minutes before you’re finally able to actually eat.

The food, to absolutely no one’s surprise, is cold.

At least now you can stop referring to everyone by their AU titles in your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader: Ha ha, this is fine. Everything’s fine. I can make this work!  
Ink & Error: _*Exist*_  
Reader: I’m so fucked. 
> 
> Man. What's up with Ink? ┐(´-｀)┌   
Find me on tumblr @ [redeyedryu](https://redeyedryu.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **Nicknames:**
>   * **Classics:** Sans (Classic), Papyrus (Paps) 
>   * **Underswap:** Blue (Sans), Stretch (Papyrus) 
>   * **Underfell:** Red (Sans), Edge/Boss (Papyrus) 
>   * **Swapfell:** Black (Sans), Rus (Papyrus) 
>   * **Horrortale:** Serif (Sans), Hickory (Papyrus)
> And then Ink and Error are just themselves.


	5. Irregularity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get a little tied up.
> 
> Sans, meanwhile, learns something... interesting about you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up but there's a graphic in this chapter that involves a lot of abrupt shifting and changing characters. It's all black-and-white so no flashing colors or anything but I just wanted to give y'all a heads up! It's towards the bottom of the chapter, after a series of ellipsis.

You’re walking down the hall, intent on making it to the bathroom to appease your angry bladder. Stupid thing. Why can’t it just let you sleep through the night? But nooooo, that’d make too much sense, would be too _ nice _ . And we all know how the universe just doesn’t play nice—especially not when _ you’re _part of the equation.

You’re groggy, hair an absolute mess and if you forgot to put your shorts back on before you left your room, well… everyone else is sleeping anyway, right?

Dinner and the impromptu house meeting had ended hours ago. Overall you would say the whole thing had been… alright. The food was cold and the whole affair was full of far too much talking and touching, but not as bad as it could have been. You are still alive and breathing for one. That's always a plus.

After everyone had finished eating (and subjecting you to the longest game of 20 questions) Papyrus had all but carried you to a spare bedroom in his excitement. He said it wasn’t used often, only once in a blue moon whenever a skeleton that didn’t live in the area decided to drop by. He didn't elaborate on who that typically entailed and you didn't ask. 

Papyrus said you could use it as your room, if you wanted. You had nearly protested on reflex before your brain caught up with you that yeah, you _ do _ kind of need a place to crash and sharing a room with strangers (because let’s face it, that’s what they are, you don’t _ actually _ know these monsters) isn’t exactly at the top of your to-do list.

Sans had chimed in with a, “sounds good, bro.” And just like that, you had a room to yourself in this strange, new, impossible world. A single human in a mansion full of skeletons.

Man, what even is your life?

You rub at your face and groan because hell if you know. You just want to use the bathroom and then pass out for the next several hours.

You’re only a few feet away from the bathroom door when you hear it—a low, static laced voice. It’s aimed at you and it takes you far too long to register who it belongs to, your half-asleep mind processing things so much slower. Before you can fully comprehend what’s going on you’re suddenly bound by so many fine cobalt blue, faintly glowing strands. They’re wrapped around your chest, your arms, your legs, your _ throat _. Needless to say, you are very much awake now.

You try not to breathe too hard, try not to panic as adrenaline races through your veins. Blue strings. That’s Error’s thing. That strange voice _ finally _ finds its place in your mind as what's going on clicks.

You dare not move for fear of slicing yourself open, eyes frantically searching the darkness surrounding you. What the fuck, man, you just wanted to take a piss! Is this really necessary? Dude’s totally, irrevocably at the bottom of your favorite skeleton list. Like so far below that he’s subterranean.

So much for him being disinterested, fuck. He was totally playin’ you at dinner, wasn’t he? Damn skeleton! Damn _ universe _!

Error chuckles as he all but melts from the shadows, his expression one of manic glee. Dramatic prick. Ooooh, you have never wanted to smack someone silly more than you do this skeleton right now.

“Heh.͏ L-lo͘o͞k͘ w҉ha͢t ̵g̡ot̵ t̛angl̨ed ų-up in̵ my͜ ͠web͘.”

You scowl at him, a few choice words on the tip of your tongue just _ begging _to be released. However, the shifting of those stupid strings of his has you biting your tongue. Error’s not exactly stable, after all, and no one’s around to step in and save you. You probably shouldn’t just belt out the first thing that comes to mind. Self-preservation and all that.

See, you’re learning!

His strings dive towards your chest without any warning and you're sure he’s aiming for your soul. You're terrified, absolutely, but a morbidly curious part of you wants to see how this plays out, wants to see your soul—what color it is, if it's really shaped like a Valentine’s heart. His magic dives straight into your chest and isn't that just the strangest thing, to see these strands just disappear into you but not feel the slightest prick or prod?

You're frozen in place, too afraid to move or to speak, too curious to see what he rips from you. So you're rather disappointed when his strings retract, empty of absolutely anything. No cartoon heart, no glowing orb of light—nothing!

He clicks his tongue and you can feel the strands wound around you tighten. Any tighter around your neck and you're likely to choke. Or be sliced open. Neither is a very pleasant image.

“We̵l͠l͘ ͏ar̨e͢-a͏ren͞’t yo͜u a̵ ̸cu͢r-͡c̸u̡rio͝u̸s ͞on̶ȩ.” He pulls you close, like a fisherman reeling in a prized catch. His eyelights rove over you, trailing from your face down to your chest, then lower yet before fixating on your chest once more. “T͞ha͢t ͘ra̕inb̶o̸w͠ ͘i͜-͢i̕di̶o͢t̢ t̸hin͠k͞s͡ ̴y̷ou̸’͜re͜-̨e some ki̵ņd ͡of ‘͠c̷rea͏tor͡’ ͟b̸ut̶ w̴e҉ b̡oth kn͢ǫw wh͞a̛ţ ͢y̵ou ͏r͠e-real̶ly arę.̡” He lets out a dry chuckle and the corners of his sickly yellow grin hitch higher. “An͞d͟ t͢h-th̛a͜t jus̴t ̢s҉e͢ąl͏e͝d͝-d ̕i̴t͟.”

What just sealed what?

Clarification, please??

He’s not going to call you a glitch, is he?

“That ̵exp̕r̛-e҉xpre̕ss͞ion. Heh͟.̛ ͘Lo̸ok͜s-s ̧l͞ike yo͟u alr͝ea͝ḑ-҉d-͘d̨y ̛knǫw,̢ d͡-͝d̴o͟n’҉tc̛h̷a?” Oh boy, don't say it. _ Don’t say- _

“Yo͞u fiļt̵hy̴ ̧a̺̫̼͔̓̒̽̿ͧ̑̏n͑̐҉̪̫̝̟̗̩ͅo̲̫͍̰̯̲ͧͯͯͬ̽ͩͣ͝m̡͇͚̼͕͑ͧ̉͋͑ͅâͭľ͚̹̲̟́̒ͅỳ͖͖̫͙̿̑̊͑͗ͮ.̟̪̤̹̘͔̗̒ͩͩ̐̔̔ͮ.”

Hm. Well. Not _ exactly _ what you had been thinking but still. Par for the course, you suppose. 

…

… 

… 

You're about to die, aren't you? You _ knew _ Error wasn't going to just give you a free pass. That had been too good to be true. But damn, couldn't he have waited to kill you until you _ weren’t _ pretty much just in your underwear? Like he could at least allow you the dignity of wearing pants or something.

At least you haven’t pissed yourself and you’ll be dead and unable to feel embarrassed over whoever finds your lifeless, pantsless body.

Well, if you're gonna go out, might as well go out with some kinda fight.

You hope this rendition of Error plays rather true to his man-baby origins.

You lick your lips and shoot the skeleton your best bedroom eyes. He squints and you’re not _ entirely sure _ , but you _ think _ you see a few error messages flash in his sockets.

Time to get this show on the road.

“Hey, man, if you wanted to tie me up, you could’ve just asked. I don't mind hangin’ around.”

His face absolutely _ blanks _ and yup. Them be error messages flashing through his sockets. The ones that hover around him seem to have kicked up a notch as well.

Nice. Maybe this’ll work?

You’re conscious of the strings, that had been so bitingly tight a moment ago, slacken ever so slightly.

“Wh͞-̴w͡ha҉t̢ ̕ki̸-̢i-i͟ņd̡ ͜of g͟a-a-a͘m͠e a̷r͏e͢ y̛o͠u͠ pl͘a̕y-p̸lay̡in͞g͜ at̴,” he growls, shoulders pulling in and frown growing. The error messages have nearly taken over the entirety of his sockets.

Yes! Maybe you can force a crash! Just keep at it, you!

“A little kinky,” you quip with a raised brow, “but what’s knot to like?”

His face _ freezes _ and no sooner have you accepted your fate than do the strings loosen from around you. You blink in surprise. Looking up at the skeleton, he’s absolutely frozen, fingers lax and the magic strings wrapped around them and attached to you are loose enough for you to gingerly weasel out of.

He doesn't respond when you completely free yourself from your bonds, nor does he react when you wave a hand before his face.

_ Yes. _ You did it! Congratulations, you!

You book it to the bathroom and when you finish your business, the outcode is still standing frozen in place. You tiptoe past him and then all but sprint back to your room, practically slamming the door shut in your haste.

Talk about a dodged bullet.

* * *

You manage to speak to Sans the following <strike>mornin</strike>g afternoon (don’t even try to lie to yourself, you didn’t wake up until well after 12 o’ clock in the afternoon), calling out to him when you see him shuffling towards the stairs.

When you ask him if you can talk somewhere private he just… stares at you for a beat. And then he sighs, turns back around, and tells you to follow him. He escorts you up the stairs and to his room, where he tells you to shut the door after you pass the threshold. He wastes no time in immediately flopping onto his bed. You shuffle awkwardly towards the desk adjacent to his bed, dodging discarded bits of clothes and stray socks, and stand, arms wrapping around your torso. There’s a lamp at the top corner of the desk, you note, its shade teetering precariously. You wonder if there’s a flashlight under there.

“so what’s up?” he rumbles, words muffled through the pillow he has his face buried in. You startle at his voice and shift your attention to him instead of studying his mess of a desk. Poor guy sounds dead tired.

You can relate.

You release one of your hands from gripping at your torso to rub at your arm from elbow to shoulder and back again. Taking a deep breath, you lean against the monster’s desk and close your eyes. You blow air through your nose and decide: to hell with it, no need to beat around the bush.

“Error attacked me last night,” you admit.

And _ that _ immediately grabs the skeleton’s attention.

“_ what? _”

“Yeah, uh… was makin’ a bathroom run and he kinda… cornered me in the middle of the hall?” Why did that come out as a question? You pointedly do _ not _ tell Sans that the outcode had caught you without your pants on—not exactly a detail important to the story.

“shit,” Sans hisses out. You hear the bed squeak and then there’s the sound of something soft falling onto the carpeted floor. When you sneak a peek, there's a pillow on the ground and Sans looks damn near ready to launch himself off the mattress and into you. “are you alright?” he asks as those pin-prick lights in his sockets zip all over, inspecting you for any signs of injury no doubt.

You wave him off.

“Oh yeah, I’m fine. Nothing really happened. I mean… a few things definitely _ did _ happen but that’s not… Error attacking me isn’t exactly what I wanted to talk to you about…” You bite at your bottom lip and furrow your brows, eyes cast to the side. Hm… this is… gonna be awkward no matter how you approach it, isn’t it? Just get on with it, woman.

“huh?”

Poor guy looks so confused. But that makes sense, most people probably _ would _ be focusing on the murder skeleton trying to… well, _ murder _ them. But then again, most people aren’t you and most people _ definitely _ aren’t from an alternate reality.

The odd ninety-nine percent of the house doesn't count.

“He wasn't able to pull out my soul.” You're back to rubbing at your arm. Guess you need to keep yourself slightly preoccupied. “He didn't elaborate on it but he _ did _ use his strings on me and they _ did _ go into my chest…”

Sans curses under his breath but you press on.

“It felt… Really weird but it didn't hurt? Like they went in me, but they didn't go _ in _ me, you know?”

Sans’s face scrunches up in a thoughtful contemplation.

“I wanted to ask you about… uhm. About my soul? Like I have one, don't I? I didn't accidentally misplace it or something while coming here, right?”

Man. You're going to have to start keeping a counter for how many times the skeletons do that voided eyelight look because once again, Sans is doing it.

A moment passes before the skeleton makes a strangled coughing sound. There’s a dusting of blue along the tops of his zygomatic bones and isn't that just cute? But no, focus, woman, _ focus _!

“you uh… are you askin’ what i think you're askin’?”

“If you're thinking I'm asking you to check my soul, then the answer is yes.”

His eyelights shrink and he brings a hand to rub at the back of his neck, his gaze drifting to the side.

“you uh… you sure?”

With an emphatic nod of your head, you tell the skeleton, “Yes. Absolutely.”

His skull hangs at your dead-set, determined expression and he sighs—a heavy, world-weary sound.

Before you can say anything—ask him if he’s okay, if you’ve overstepped some kind of cultural boundary—his head snaps up. His right eye socket is void black while his left is that characteristic electric blue. You don’t know if you’re imagining it, but there are wisps of magic licking at the air around his skull, leaking from the illuminated socket.

The world around you bleeds to black and you’re left thinking, _ huh. That’s neat. _ This must be a confrontation? But you don’t see any game screen looking options. No bullet box, no FIGHT, ACT, ITEM, MERCY buttons—heck, you don’t even see that minor line of stats that states your name, LV, and HP.

Huh. Is this thing broken? Did you break it?

You shift your attention to Sans, standing across the void from you. He’s still staring at you with that blazing eye socket but his grin looks tight and there’s sweat beading along the crown of his skull.

Should you be concerned? You’re kind of concerned… 

Do you… do you need to do something? But there are no prompts? Are you supposed to wait for Sans to do something? But he’s just being awkward and weird and just staring and _ sweating _.

You fidget and bite at your lip. You’ll just… wait it out. You don’t want to accidentally hurt him or something, after all.

You have no way of knowing the strange irregularity he’s witnessing.

…

…

… 

…

…

… 

…

…

… 

… 

…

… 

…

…

… 

…

…

… 

After what feels like hours the blackness around you melts away just as it had appeared, Sans’s dimly lit, mess of a bedroom returning to focus. A look at the skeleton shows that his eyelight has extinguished, though the sweat persists. He doesn’t say anything.

“Uh… Sans?”

He doesn’t respond.

You try again, “Sans!”

And that seems to do the trick. He shakes his head, as if clearing a mental fog.

“huh? ...what?”

“What’d you see?” You try not to wring your hands. “Am I okay?”

He’s silent for a moment that borders on awkward and you fidget again, suddenly more nervous than anxious. Before you get the chance to try again, he responds.

“uh... yeah. yeah, kid. everything’s peachy…”

You squint at him and frown at that less than satisfying answer. He won’t meet your eyes. Now it’s his turn to fidget.

“Sans…” Your voice is low, skeptical.

“think i hear paps callin’ for me. gotta go, see ya!”

And _ poof _! He’s gone.

Well.

That positively, absolutely, most certainly was _ not _ suspicious at all. Damn squirrelly skeleton. But there isn’t much you can do about Sans and his disappearing act so you push off from his desk and make your way out of his room, scowling as you skulk down the hallway and back to the stairs. You nearly shoulder-check Red on your way and he growls something at you but you don’t hear it, too preoccupied by your pounding ears and racing thoughts.

_ What did he see? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader: ...everything's totally _fiiiiiiiine_ !  
Reader:  
Reader:  
Reader: ...right?
> 
> Hm... Who dropped that plot into my crack fic? >:T


	6. Drained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't trust you; you don't trust them.
> 
> Sans crosses a boundary but what you don't know won't hurt you... right?

“Hey, does anyone gotta charger that’ll work with my phone?”

The room, which had been rather loud and boisterous seconds before you had opened your mouth, is now silent. If there had been a cricket present, it would have been chirping loud and clear.

“Uh…? Is that a no?”

Stars be damned. They're all just _ staring _ at you. _ Again! _This is like the fifth time today, what the hell guys, stop it!

“Look, the vacant staring is getting kind of old.”

Red is the first to snap out of it with a shake of his head. He's actually not scowling at you for once.

“ya gotta phone?” he asks, for some reason in complete disbelief.

“...yeah? Kind of a staple of life in my native reality…?” Are cell phones not as big of a thing here? They're not still those clunky brick phones with hella tiny screens and number pad keyboards here, are they? Man, you hope not. Also you really hope someone can charge your phone because you’ve got a lot of stuff on this chunk of plastic, metal, and glass. It would suck to be stuck with a useless brick you had spent hundreds of dollars on.

“lemme see it,” Red demands, now suddenly standing before you. His clawed hand is spread before your face in a very clear _ gimmie _ manner.

“What? No!” You protest, clutching the device to your chest. You have _ things _ and _ stuff _ in it that you would really rather none of them see! Like the home screen, which just so happens to be a commissioned piece of you and a certain skeleton. The lock screen should be fine, you think; you doubt Deltarune means anything to these guys.

When you cast a quick, cursory glance over the room and spot Black lounging on the love seat across from you, you absolutely do _ not _ sputter and panic. The red dusting your cheeks is all because you're trying to fend off Red and his grabby hands, aiming for your phone!

Case in point: he’s currently pressed up against your back, arms wrapped around your sides and claws making grabby motions at the device clutched tightly in your hands, huddled close to your chest.

“If you don't gotta charger you can just say so!” You nearly shout, shifting your weight to keep him at your back as he moves to get in front of you.

“heh, y’actin’ real suspicious, kid. whadda ya hidin’?”

“Nothing!” you screech, voice only slightly cracking.

“c’mon, babe,” Red says and your face just scrunches automatically. “fork it over n’ maybe i’ll lend ya mine.”

You twist away from him when he tilts at just the right angle to wedge an arm over your shoulder, claws inches from your phone. “Don't call me ‘babe’, Red, that's disgusting. And for the last time, _ no! _ I don't want your phone, you've probably got like weird mustard themed porn on that thing or something!”

He sputters and falters. “wh-wha?! no i ain’t!” And you take the opening, easily rolling out from under him so you now stand a few feet away.

“Fine, regular porn! But my point still stands, I'm not handing my phone over!”

The skeleton scowls and clicks his metaphorical tongue.

“c’mon, ain’t such a big deal.” Red growls at you, a scowl spreading across his face. He crosses his arms and flops back onto the couch, jostling Stretch, who had already been seated. The taller skeleton is watching with one half-lidded eye socket, skull resting in his palm as he cozies up to the couch’s arm. He doesn't say anything, just watches as you and Red bicker.

You huff and cross your own arms, grip tightening on your phone. “Yeah, well my privacy is.”

“_ tch _ . s’rich, commin’ from someone i ain't never met who claims they know _ so much _ ‘bout me.” Red sneers at you, his crimson eyelights flashing, before his expression shifts to a downright _ malicious _ grin. “heh. betcha _ yer _th’ one wit sum nasty shit on there.”

Excuse you? _ Excuse you?! _

You can't formulate a proper response to the asshole’s very obvious baiting. You know what he’s doing, you _ do _ , but that doesn't make it any easier to control yourself, to formulate a cohesive reply. A quick glance around the room, from Red to Stretch, to Black, to Serif and back again, doesn't help. Maybe you were hoping someone would jump in in your defense or… or _ something _ ! But no. They're all just very obviously listening in, clearly unwilling to offer you any kind of assistance—you, the weird, suspicious human who _ knows too much _.

None of them trust you. <strike> None of them like you. </strike>

Your stomach rolls and a tightness constricts in your chest. There's an uncomfortable tingle spreading out from beneath your skin that you try to ignore. The hand not gripping your phone digs into your upper arm and you dig your nails into the flesh, _ dragging _ them across your skin in an effort to ground yourself, to distract your spiraling mind.

You turn on your heel and leave the room without so much as another word. You don't need to put up with this kind of bullshit.

* * *

Papyrus, Classic™ Papyrus, finds you sitting in the kitchen, alone, not too long later. You're seated at the small table you had devoured that bag of popato chisps just the night prior. Somehow that already feels like it had happened _ days _ ago.

You’re hunched over in your seat, your hair curtaining your face as you glare down at your phone. It's the only connection you have to your home, to your _ life _, and it's sitting at a measly twelve percent battery life. Why hadn't you charged it when you were home? It's not like anything had kept you from doing so, aside from your own stupid laziness. You bite your lip and dig your nails into your thighs, relying on the pain to distract your treacherous, wandering mind.

The skeleton is hesitant to say anything at first, the tension and unease rolling off you in near tangible waves an uncomfortable pressure on his soul. You apparently hadn't noticed his entrance, too focused glaring at the small device sat on the table before you. Papyrus frowns. He doesn't know you, and your story is a strange one, but you had seemed nice enough. A little strange and worrying, but you appear to be a good person overall. So it upsets him, to see you sitting there in obvious turmoil.

He walks up beside you and clears his throat. You merely pull in your shoulders, head dipping lower. There's a shudder to your body and he isn't sure, but he thinks he hears a soft hiccup. Are you… crying?

“Human?” Papyrus questions gently, placing a gloved hand upon your shoulder. “Are You Alright?”

You choose to ignore the way you jolt at his sudden touch and sniffle, bringing a palm to wipe at the treacherous tears pooling along your eyes. You take a deep breath and h o l d i t i n. Then release.

Feeling grounded enough, you utter a frustratingly meek affirmation and hope that's enough to appease the skeleton. His hand does not leave your shoulder.

He crouches down so that his skull is level with your eye-line. From your peripheral and through the curtain of your hair, you can see the concerned, tender expression he is giving you. You bite at your lip and dig your nails into the meat of your thighs.

“If Something Is Wrong, You May Talk To Me About It, Human.”

His voice is so soft, almost pleading. It almost lulls you into giving in. Almost.

You shake your head and wipe at your face, gulp in a deep breath and then toss your head back, posture straightening. It's easy to slap a smile on your face as you address the skeleton, “I'm good, Papyrus, don't worry!” You ignore the way his sockets narrow in a suspicious squint. “Just a bit bummed I don't have a way to charge my phone. It's almost dead.”

And here, you snatch the device from the table and wave it at him and shrug. He lets his hand fall from your shoulder as he moves to cup his chin.

He appears to be pondering something for a brief moment before he looks at you with wide, excited sockets.

“Have You Spoken To My Brother?”

Your brows furrow. “Sans? No, why?” Honestly, you think he might be avoiding you. You haven’t seen hide nor hair of the monster since your little confrontation earlier.

“Well, I’m Sure You Know That He Is Quite Great—Not Nearly As Great As I, Of Course.” You nod blankly. “Speak With Him, Friend, I Am Sure He Is More Than Capable Of Putting Something Together!”

Your shoulders pull in and the grin you give Papyrus is tight. Something clenches in your chest. “Ah… yeah, that's a good idea.” Somehow you doubt you will be able to locate the elusive skeleton.

“I’M GLAD YOU AGREE!” Papyrus all but shouts as he picks himself up from his crouch. “WAIT HERE! I SHALL GO FETCH THE LAZYBONES!” And without another word, Papyrus is off and running.

The tension eases from your muscles at his exuberant exit. Papyrus will probably have better luck at tracking down his brother than you ever will. Especially considering 1) Sans can teleport and 2) He likely doesn't want to see you on the count of whatever he saw.

You sigh and slouch in your seat and fiddle with your phone. Guess you'll wait here.

* * *

Sans taps a phalanx across the surface of his desk as he stares at your phone.

Papyrus had searched him out earlier and proposed putting something together for you to charge it. His brother had posed it as a chance to level-up his “Friendship” with you or some such nonsense. When Sans had attempted to protest, to toss out an excuse, Papyrus had brooked no argument. So here he sits, slouched against the side of his chair, cheek propped in his palm. It was child’s play to throw together a charger for your phone. Couldn't have taken more than an hour and yet here he is, nearly five hours later, still in possession of the device on the pretense of working on it. Considering the fact it’s presently ass o’ clock in the morning, though, you likely won’t come searching him out for another few hours. Which works out for him.

Sans doesn’t plan on telling anyone and he’ll take it to his grave but he _ absolutely _ took the opportunity to snoop through your phone. It wasn’t hard, puzzling out how to unlock the device.

He stares at your now fully charged phone, the screen dim.

He had scrolled through the years upon years of photos saved in your library (apparently you never delete anything) and as much of a breach of trust it was, he appreciates the extra insight into who you are. Besides, could anyone really blame him, after what he had seen? He needed answers and sure, he could ask you but he just couldn't get a read on you like he could everyone else. Was it because you didn't have a soul? Or… _ did _ you have one? Multiples? Were you even a real person?

He groans and scrubs at his face, bones clacking and clicking upon contact. He still doesn't know how to unpack all of…_ that _. But after sneaking a peek at the device, just a little bit of tension and apprehension about you ebb away at what he had found. 

Photos of a clearly beloved pet (a stupid, hairy white dog; a beast of a hound; a gorgeous, if not derpy, cat; a slithering snake; a trilling bird).

You, smiling with who were undoubtedly your friends.

Pictures of birthdays—yours, your friends’, family’s.

Food, the ocean, an interesting rock formation, a curious number of pictures of garbage (he wants to ask about them but that would give him away).

There are reference pictures. Pictures of art likely saved from the internet of your various fandom interests. They’re sparse, but he stumbles upon a few pieces of himself, of Black, Serif, Ink. A couple of versions of himself he’s not too happy you know about (and hopes you never wind up crossing paths with). That was a bit disorienting, if not unsurprising. You _ had _ mentioned how much fan created content exists of them in your world but hearing about a thing and _ seeing it _are two completely different things.

There are _ thousands _ of photos and at least a hundred videos. He doesn't look at _ everything _ on your phone—that would take far too long—but he is able to glean a significant grasp of your character and interests. And what he finds is… well… He’s not sure how he feels about it. Relieved? Disappointed?

You're completely and utterly _ normal _ for a human from an alternate reality. It really makes him wonder why you, _ how _ you. The mystery of it all almost makes him want to get back into the science of things, past just trying to figure something out with that malfunctioning hunk of junk in the basement. And it's not like they’ve actually been working all that hard on it lately anyway. They haven't told you, but some of them have been here for _ years _ already. Nearly a decade, last he counted. A lot of them have already accepted they're here to stay.

You had been the first new arrival in such a long time. 

They're hesitant to broach this particular subject with you so soon after your appearance. Maybe in a few months’ time, when you've settled into things a bit… then they'll sit you down and explain it.

At least he now knows he’s likely _ not _dealing with some kind of sick freak. You’re a bit weird—and the confrontation has undoubtedly raised so many more questions than answers, he won’t discount that—but harmless.

He resumes tapping out a steady rhythm against the surface of his desk as he lets his mind wander.

For the moment, he doesn't believe you to be a threat. The weirdness with your soul(?) can probably be chalked up to you being from an alternate reality. Perhaps things work differently where you are from? Maybe that's… _ normal _ for your people?

Sans lets loose a heavy sigh and sinks atop his desk, arms splayed before him and forehead pressed against the surface.

Why can't he ever just catch a break?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red: lemme see yer phone.   
Reader: What? No! That's an invasion of privacy!   
Sans: mind if i look at that for a sec?   
Reader: Oh yeah, sure. *Hands phone over*
> 
> Papyrus is best boy. You can't convince me otherwise.  
But man. Where'd that sprinkling of angst come from? >:/
> 
> Goodness gracious. I'm glad y'all enjoyed the gif in the last chapter! You have _no_ idea how excited I was to slap that baby in (asnjdwsd it was _so. many. layers_ XD). I love all the theorizing about what's up with Reader about that! Wonder when we'll get some answers on that... hm...
> 
> Feel free to speculate about things and stuff with me over on [tumblr](https://redeyedryu.tumblr.com/)~!


	7. Dreaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...are you really, though?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! **Please take a moment to review the tags as they have been updated to reflect the current chapter!** I have also preemptively bumped the rating on this fic to Explicit and added a Rape/Non-Con warning. There is nothing explicit in this chapter but there is non-consensual touching and biting, fear play, and negative ideations. Please proceed with caution.

You rouse at some indeterminate hour, chest tight and aching, a vague recollection of less than pleasant dreams floating along the periphery of your sleep-heavy mind. A cursory glance around the room clues you in to the late hour. It’s pitch black, no light peeking from beneath the heavy curtains nor from under the door. There is no clock or digital device in the room to signify time and without your phone, you have no sure way of determining what time it is beside it being late o’ clock. Or early, you suppose.

You frown and bring a hand to rub at the space above and between your chest. The tightness is starting to radiate into your throat, your stomach now churning as well. A sure tell of your anxiety fighting to the surface.

That frown deepens into a scowl. You don't need this right now; you don't want to deal with this right now. And yet… it's like everything from the past forty-eight hours _ and then some _ has decided now is the _ perfect _ time to slap you like a cinder block to the face.

Good lord, you feel so damn _ sad _. It isn’t even your pre-period angst time or anything. What the fuck.

You roll over with a growl, brows furrowed about as furrowy as they can get. You catch yourself clenching your jaw and have to consciously release the tension. Huh. Looks like you’re doing the same thing with your shoulders, too.

“Augh!!” you grumble, flopping onto your back instead. If you slammed your fists on the plush of your sheets and foamy bed top… well, who can blame you? You’re tired, your anxiety is trying to bubble up to the surface, you’re unreasonably sad and just so _ a n g r y _ that you’re feeling like this.

You glare at the ceiling of your borrowed pitch-black room. Somewhere in the distance you can hear the rumbling of someone’s obnoxious snoring. You want them to _ shut the fuck up _.

You close your eyes.

Take a slow, deep breath.

Hold it.

Keep holding it.

Exhale s l o w l y.

You take a moment to try and center yourself and think: why are you feeling like this? You can be temperamental, sure, but this? ...this is a bit extreme. It’s… abnormal.

You let loose a rather choice, rather _ loud _ expletive as you shoot up into a slouching sit.

Of course.

This _ isn’t _ you. Not exactly.

“It’s _ you _ , isn’t it, you _ asshole _ ! Show your happy ass so I can _ kick it _!!”

Hm. Maybe… maybe you shouldn’t have done that because you’re suddenly feeling a very uncomfortable, oppressive sensation, almost as if you’re drowning—suffocating, even. There’s a heavy, constrictive tightness in your chest, like a weight has been placed upon it. Those unwanted feelings you’ve been trying _ so damn hard _ to hide away are crashing back into you and damn if they don’t feel ten times worse.

You slouch forward, head nearly resting on your knees, hands gripping at the flesh of your upper arms, nails biting into skin as you struggle to ground yourself.

A chuckle permeates the dark, heavy air around you before it speaks.

“aren't you an interesting little _ morsel? _ ” His voice has a strange, echoey warble to it, though it is just as deep and gravelly as any of the Fell Sans variants. A shiver racks down your spine and your blood runs cold. Part of you didn't think he was _ actually _ here and another part yet didn't think he would _ show himself _.

** _Shit_ ** _ . _

So much for having learned anything.

You shift your head to get a proper glance of the monster now standing at your bedside. From your position doubled over yourself you can only see about midway up his chest but it's more than enough to confirm just who it is you're dealing with. The dripping, tar-like goop, the negativity seemingly _ radiating _ off of him… Your blood turns to absolute _ ice _.

Nightmare stands before you.

Not only do you have to deal with Ink and Error, but _ this _ joker is here, too? Hell, did the universe put a hit out on you or something? because this is getting _ ridiculous _.

“oh yes, do keep that up, human,” he practically _ purrs _, “you sure know how to treat a guy, don’t you?”

You wince as a fresh wave of negativity surges through you—all your self-doubt, your loathing, and hate. Trying to force it down, you bite at your lip and dig your nails deeper into the flesh of your upper arms. 

“What… what’re you… _ doing here _?” It’s a struggle to get the words out but you manage through sheer force of will (and no small amount of spite).

He chuckles and you watch through squinted eyes as his torso shifts with a motion your limited view misses out on.

“heh. your bravado’s cute, kid, but i wouldn't force myself if i were you.” He leans down, the sudden exposure to his face, to that cyan glowing eye of his, has you reeling. You jolt from your doubled-over position and fall to your side, quickly scrambling further along the bed, trying to put as much distance between the two of you as possible. You curse when your back hits the wall, having forgotten the bed was positioned in a corner.

“like i said, _ treat _ : you're _ interesting _ . there aren’t many people who know of me in this frustratingly _ small _ universe, even less that are _ aware _ of what i can do… but you?” He chuckles and you flinch as he sits himself on the edge of the bed, a palm and his tentacles resting on the sheets. He leans towards you, causing you to clutch the blankets tight to your chest.

“the game changes when your prey knows it's being hunted.”

You’re at a loss for words, mind an absolute blank, and the goopy monster’s Cheshire smile _ stretches _ . He’s probably getting off on this, on your fear and negativity, and that rekindles the fire that had been burning when you first picked up on what was going on. Oh hell no, you're not going to take this—not from him, not from _ anyone _!

Your spine straightens and you all but growl at him, “You don't scare me!” You fist the blankets in your grasp and boldly declare that, “I won't fall for your stupid mind games!”

Much to your frustration the asshole just continues to smile at you.

“that so?” he asks as he tilts his skull back and leers down at you. His gaze is challenging with a hint of a smug dismissiveness. You hold his stare for a moment, body tense and on edge, just _ waiting _ for him to do something. So engrossed in your staring contest, you jolt when he lets loose an abrupt laugh.

In the blink of an eye something dark and viscous shoots across the bed and tightly wraps around your ankle. You can only manage a yelp as you’re _ yanked _ across the bed, back falling against the mattress and hair haloing around you. Dread coils in your belly as you register that you are now pinned beneath Nightmare, his arms on either side of your head and the tentacle wrapped around your ankle s l o w l y slithering its way higher and higher up your leg, its embrace constricting.

Nightmare’s grin turns absolutely _ nasty _ as he proceeds to wrap each of your remaining limbs with a tentacle, the appendages roaming all over your trapped figure. He’s near drunk off your panic, the hopelessness and fear just _ pouring _ from you in waves. It has been _ far _ too long since he’s held this level of power and control over someone and damned if he lets a morsel like you slip from his grasp. He just needs to _ educate _ you a little, put you in your place.

You do your best to fight back the tears welling in your eyes, jaws clenched tight, and try to pull at your trapped limbs, grunting and growling with the effort (those aren't whimpers, they're _ not _), though you ultimately succeed in merely straining your muscles. You’re left panting from the futile effort.

He’s so much stronger than you… 

A shudder races through your spine as Nightmare leans down to speak into your ear. You can _ hear _ the smile, the unbridled _ glee _ in his voice as he speaks, “thought you said i don’t scare you, _ treat _ .” He shifts and tilts his skull into the flesh of your neck, rubbing his skull against it in a mockery of a nuzzle. It’s an odd sensation—the feeling of bone and something _ wet _ and _ wrong _ trailing along your skin. “you can’t lie to me,” he continues, jaws parting. You feel his warm breath ghost along your neck and your flesh prickles with goosebumps as something _ laves _ against you, trailing down to the juncture between neck and shoulder, leaving a tingling, chilling sensation in its wake.

You’re hyper aware of just how far that first tentacle has traveled as it gently massages the meat of your inner thigh. You bite your lip as tears begin to fall. You hate this, you hate _ him _ —you hate that you're powerless and trapped in this _ stupid _ situation and that you can do little more than struggle in vain.

“just you wait,” his husky voice whispers, “i’ll show you _real_ _soon_ just how pointless it is to fight against me_._” And then he _b i t e s_ into the muscle of your shoulder.

You wake up in a gasping panic, greedily inhaling as much oxygen as you can, eyes wet and wild. You pull yourself into a sit and cast your gaze around you. You're in your borrowed room and there’s soft blue light spilling from the edges of the curtains. There is no skeleton covered in a vile, viscous tar hovering over you, no tentacles holding you down.

You make a conscious effort to slow your breathing and close your eyes. _ Just a dream _ , you tell yourself, _ it was just a dream. _

You lift a hand to ghost along the phantom pain radiating from your shoulder. You don't feel any swollen skin, no tenderness to the touch—your mind is just playing tricks on you.

“It was just a dream,” you repeat aloud. “Just a dream…”

You think… you think maybe you’ll grab a drink from the kitchen, maybe a quick snack, to distract your mind, to help ease the dream to nothing more than a vague, faded recollection. 

You pull the sheets to the side and slide your legs towards the edge. Just as you're about to slide to the floor something catches your gaze. Through the hazy darkness of the room partially illuminated by the mid-morning light, you notice it: a blooming, purple bruise ringing your ankle. The aching, radiating pain comes next.

* * *

“you don't look so hot,” a voice rumbles from behind you. You shift your gaze to its owner and note that it’s Rus, the Swapfell Papyrus. He’s got a brow ridge quirked as he looks down at you, crumpled across the couch. You’ve been occupying this particular piece of furniture since the crack of dawn.

“Yeah, well neither do you,” you grouse back.

He chuckles and shrugs as he makes his way across the room. “didn't sleep well?”

You groan miserably, clutch a throw pillow and smash it against your face. “No… Nightmare,” you mumble through the fabric.

With a rustling of fabric and displaced air, Rus drops himself into the nearby love seat. “a nightmare? that sucks but guess it ain't surprising.”

You grumble and shake your head, face still mashed into the cushion. “No,” you protest, raising a leg (the one _ without _ the ugly, aching bruise) to drop it heavily on the couch. “ _ Nightmare _.”

He’s silent for a moment. Long enough that it has you wondering if he’s even still here, so you twist your head and peek from the side of the pillow. Maybe he hadn't heard you, what with you speaking into the pillow?

…

Nope, he’s still here. He’s just… staring at you. Frowning.

Another awkward moment of silence passes before he speaks, “s’what i said: _ a _nightmare.”

You push yourself up onto your elbows and give the skeleton a _ look _ . “No,” you protest, “not _ a _ nightmare. _ Nightmare _, with a capital ‘n’. You know, the goopy guy with the tentacles?” To emphasize your point, you pull an arm to your back and waggle it around in your best (worst) imitation of a tentacle.

Now it’s Rus’s turn to give _ you _ a look. It's indescribable.

“You uh… you _ do _ know about him, right?”

It's silent for a moment more before Rus lets out a thoughtful hum and slides into a comfortable slouch. He fishes around for something in his signature jacket as he says, “damn, sucks to be you. what’d you do to piss _ him _ off?”

You sputter, raising yourself to your palms in an indignant huff. “_ Me _ ? Why is it _ my _ fault? I hadn't even _ met _the guy, I only just got here!”

Much to your frustration, the bastard just shrugs. He pulls what can only be a dog treat from his pocket and props it in his maw. “yeah, well, ya did somethin’ t’catch his attention. haven't seen the guy in years-” You balk at that—he’s-_ they’ve _ been here for _ years _ ? “-’n makin’ an appearance _ now _ all’a sudden?” He pulls a zippo from somewhere, flicks it back, and lights up the edge of the biscuit. It catches and a deep purple smoke begins to rise before he flicks the lighter closed, shoving it back wherever he pulled it from. Rus tilts his skull towards you, takes a heavy drag of the treat before pulling it from between his jaws, and tells you, “i’d say it was nice knownin’ you, but ‘m not one for lyin’.” He replaces the dog treat between his teeth and then settles further into the couch, skull now turned away from you as a purple haze settles around him.

That… that actually kind of hurt. A lot more than you thought it would. You rub at your chest and try to ignore the uncomfortable prickle that surfaces at his words. Why _ would _ he care if Nightmare is targeting you? You’re not friends, and just like how you don't know them, they don't know _ you _, either; there’s no attachment between you, you're not endeared to any of them, no matter how much they meant to you in your old world.

You don't mean anything to anyone. Not here, anyway.

You don't say anything as you pull yourself into a sit, don't so much as look in the skeleton’s direction as you lift yourself from the couch. You place the throw pillow you had been assaulting back along the arm of the couch and silently make your way out of the room. Maybe it’s better if you just… make yourself scarce.

As you pass through the hallway leading to your room, you walk by Ink. The way he’s lingering against the wall, a hand slightly raised towards you, you figure he was more than likely eavesdropping. Dodging his reach and ignoring the apologetic expression he gives you, you make your way to your borrowed room.

A nap sounds great right about now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://redeyedryu.tumblr.com/). :)


	8. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something not quite right about that guy.

The next few days pass in a haze.

Not long after your “discussion” with Rus, Sans had knocked on your door to return your phone and pass along a charger he had put together for you. You had given him a simple thank you, then closed the door in his face, unable to muster up the energy to put your manners to proper use. 

Maybe you should have told Sans about that night, you find yourself thinking some time after he had already left. ...But would he have even cared? Your mind flashed to Rus’s words, to his dismissive attitude, and a stabbing ache radiated through your chest. No, no, it’s better not to bother anyone with this. It's not like they would care.

It was easy to hole yourself away after that. Among your phone and the charger, Sans had included a bit of paper with their network information, allowing you to connect to their alien internet. When you weren't sleeping, you distracted yourself with this world’s equivalent of YouTube and Google. You searched through various news articles: local, national, global; political, entertainment, technology, arts. It was… strange and disconcerting. There were a surprising number of parallels between this place and yours, and yet the differences were stark. Major brands you would be able to recognize in a heartbeat seemingly didn't exist here; certain well-known game series, while they did exist, hadn't garnered the same attention here and had petered out after a single instillation—two, if they were lucky. You thought it some kind of interesting that the Mother/EarthBound series didn't seem to exist. Neither did Smash, apparently.

That made you smile a bittersweet grin. No wonder Sans seemingly hadn't understood your reference before.

Nightmare hasn't shown himself since, but sometimes, when you're just on the border between sleep and wakefulness, you think you catch movement in the darkest corners of the room. Your gaze never lingers, and you never focus, scared of what you might see.

You only ever sneak from your borrowed room to go to the bathroom or rummage something from the kitchen when everyone else is asleep. You're aware you're avoiding everyone, that this isn't healthy, but at the same time you just can't bring yourself to care. Why should you, when no one else does?

It's once again ass o’ clock and you're currently standing in the darkened kitchen, lit only by the open fridge you're staring into as if it holds the answer to life itself. There are various stacked tupperware, a package of thawing ground beef, and quite a few other food bits scattered about. Needless to say, it doesn't appear that anyone is hard up on food stuffs in this house. You don't feel any less guilty about taking from them, though.

You eventually settle on nabbing the carton of eggs, a bottle of mustard, and some shredded cheddar. Setting them on the counter by the stove, you swipe a packet of English muffins from the bread box. As you pivot on your heel, bread in hand, intent on digging up a pan, you’re startled to find someone standing right behind you.

“JESUS!” you shout, arms pulling to your chest, which leads to you accidentally _ whacking _your would-be assailant with the packet of muffins straight across the face.

They don't move, don't so much as flinch, just stare at you with mis-matched eye lights. He blinks, whether in disbelief or offense you can't say. One thing’s for sure though: the floor is now littered with bread.

A smidge of guilt and no small amount of annoyance rolls from you as Ink grins. Then he starts chuckling.

“What the hell?!” you hiss, “You scared the shit outta me!” You scowl as you squat down to gather up the floor bread. Man, what a waste. Maybe the boys will still eat it? Do germs affect them?

“My apologies,” Ink manages out between chuckles, drawing you from your spiraling thoughts. “Though… you _ did _ just hit me.”

“Yeah, will serves you right for sneaking up on me! Seriously, what the hell, man?! You're lucky it wasn't the eggs or something, _ shit _.” You dig your phone from your pocket and turn the flashlight on, pointedly ignoring the skeleton and scouring the floor for any bread you might have missed.

“Ah, but can you really blame me?” Ink follows along as you place the floor spiced bread on the counter beside your other ingredients. He props himself against the counter, an elbow resting on the surface and his chin resting in his palm. You ignore his gaze—it doesn't feel as innocent and disarming as you're sure he’d like you to believe. “It’s so hard to pin you down, with how you’re holed away in your room as you’ve been lately,” he practically whines.

Just ignore him. Surely he’ll get bored and leave you alone. You busy yourself with inspecting the muffins. Knowing how cleanly roughly half of your cohabitants are, you doubt it’d kill you to still eat these. You pick two and begin dusting them off—just in case.

“Why is that, _ mon bonheur _?”

You pull a sour face at his words and squeeze a piece of bread a little harder than it probably deserves. Was that… is he… is he speaking _ French _ ? And the way he’s playing ignorant… you _ know _ he had heard your conversation with Rus that day. He damn well _ knows _ why you’ve made yourself scarce. You clench your jaw and don't acknowledge him, instead shifting to turn on the light from the over-the-stove microwave. You tell yourself the way the darkness twists and coils as it retreats from the light is a mere trick of your mind.

You need a pan.

“Ah, _ ma douce, _” Ink goes on to say as you dig a small skillet from a cabinet, “must you give me the cold shoulder?”

Still very clearly ignoring the vexing skeleton, you settle the pan on the stove-top and ignite the burner. He says something, but what that something is you couldn't say, having opted to completely tune him out. You're still hungry and you still have an egg sandwich begging to be made, dammit.

As you reach for the egg carton the hairs on the back of your neck raise and a bolt of electricity shoots down your spine, radiating through your entire body. Not a second later, you feel the presence of someone settling behind you and arms moving to wrap around your waist.

"_ Ma poupée _ ," Ink whispers into your ear, pulling you flush against him. You freeze. There’s a ringing in your ears and it’s suddenly hard to breathe. “ _ Je veux juste un peu de goût… _” 

Ink’s talking, you _ know _ he is, but all you can hear is Nightmare’s echoing warble, those tentacles holding you down, _ feeling trapped and unable to escape _.

You don’t even register grabbing the pan from the stove, nor do you recall swinging it towards the shocked skeleton now standing several feet away, hands raised in a placating manner. Your chest is tight and there are tears streaming down your cheeks, your breath coming out in short, ragged pants.

You don’t know what just happened.

You look from your hand, grasping the pan’s handle in a white-knuckled grip, to the skeleton, and back to the pan. Had… had you really tried to hit Ink? A strange numbness washes over you at that realization.

You… you can’t deal with this right now, you _ can’t _ . You need… you need to get out of here—be anywhere _ but _ here; anywhere but that _ bedroom _. Maybe… maybe some fresh air will do you some good?

You set the pan back on the stove and flick the burner off, moving as if in a fog. You don’t hear Ink call to you, don’t remember to put away the floor bread or the rest of the food stuffs you had pulled out, focused solely on getting as far away from him and everything wrong with this place as possible.

* * *

Despite what a lot of people seem to think, Blue isn't an early riser by nature. No, that would actually be his brother—which Blue believes isn't very fair, considering how much the lazybones sleeps in and lazes about. It's not until he’s had a good cup of coffee (or three) that Blue feels like he’s adequately prepared to take on the day.

And thus, he starts his early morning by shuffling into the kitchen and brewing a pot of coffee. It’s early, roughly 5:30am, and the majority of the household is still asleep. Papyrus—the “classic” version of his brother, that is—is due up any minute; Edge will likely be short to follow. Hickory, despite the apparent Papyrus gene of being able to readily face the day the second one wakes up, often does not leave the room he shares with his brother until the late morning.

Blue is pulling down a mug (his top favorite one—something his brother had gotten for him a couple years back for Gyftmas, that appears to be nothing more than a plain black piece but once something hot is placed in it, a stunning scene of the aurora borealis is revealed) when the coffee maker gurgles out the last of its brew. And just in time, it seems, as Black shuffles into the kitchen, looking no less exhausted and rumpled than Blue feels. He grabs a tumbler (the one that reads, “I don't give a sip” in a loose script font) and hands it to his sharper self.

Black grunts out some unintelligible response (probably a thank you… _ probably _), and wastes no time in pouring himself a heaping helping of coffee. Like his namesake, he prefers to drink the bitter bean juice black, and so wastes no time in screwing the lid shut and taking a generous sip. Blue, on the other hand, proceeds to stir in creamer and no less than three spoonfuls of sugar before helping himself to a taste.

He and his darker counterpart stand in silence for a few moments, leaning against the countertop, simply enjoying their chosen poison. It’s nice, Blue thinks, moments like these where he can just bask in the company of others.

Sufficiently caffeinated, Black is able to muster up the energy to string together a coherent sentence.

“So, Tell Me, What Is On The Agenda For Today?”

Huh. Black must be more worn out than Blue thought, for him to be speaking so softly. Work must be running him ragged.

Blue hums as he thinks on it. He’s got the day off—actually isn't needed in until next Tuesday, if he’s remembering correctly—so…

“I’M NOT SURE YET,” he admits. “PERHAPS AN EARLY MORNING JOG AND THEN I’LL SEE FROM THERE. WOULD YOU CARE TO JOIN?”

Black seems to ponder it as he takes a long pull from his tumbler, before finally, he grimaces and says, “No. Unfortunately Not Today. Perhaps Another Day.”

Blue frowns and sets his mug on the counter, turning to give Black a sympathetic look. “EARLY DAY?”

Black grumbles, his posture dipping into a slouch as he drags his claws over his face. “If Only That Were The End Of It…”

Blue winces. “OUCH… SORRY.”

With what can only be described as a whine, Black straightens his posture and pulls away from the counter. “It Is What It Is. But… Unfortunately I Best Be Off, Lest Those _ IMBECILES _ Screw Something _ Else _ Up.”

“GOOD LUCK!” Blue calls as Black heads off. The skeleton merely lifts a hand in acknowledgment before disappearing into the house. It's unfortunate Blue is down a running partner but he’s sure if he waits a bit longer, that problem will quickly resolve itself.

So he meanders over to the lounge, though not before refilling his mug with another helping of coffee.

Just as the skeleton is about to make himself comfortable on one of the couches, he catches something that registers as not quite right, out of the corner of his eye socket. He pauses and looks to the floor to ceiling glass windows that overlook the courtyard, gaze scanning for that irregularity and oh! There it is! Leaned up against the wall just outside the door leading out. Blue squints, focuses, and… is that-? It is! It’s _ you _, their new human friend, sitting outside, propped against the wall. You're hidden in the shadows cast by the house this early in the morning but he can see you well enough.

Blue’s brows furrow. What are you doing out there? Temperatures don't really affect him or any of the other skeletons but he _ knows _ humans are more sensitive to that sort of thing. And it isn't the warmest time of year, either—just the opposite, in fact! To make matters worse, it doesn't look like you have a jacket or even a blanket to help warm you up. Are you an idiot? Did you _ want _ to get yourself sick?

He sets his mug on the coffee table and hurries to the nearby linen closet, grabbing a heavy blanket and making his way to the door. He huffs as he maneuvers the door open, fumbling to not drop the blanket, and rolls over a few choice words he's going to have to share with you. But when he finally gets a good look at you… it's not exactly… “good”.

It can't have been more than a week since your arrival and yet you look nothing like you had during that dinner. There are heavy shadows ringing your eyes and he’s not sure but… he thinks you look a little pale? Though that might be due to the fact you've been sleeping outside in the nippy morning air. Your clothes—the very same ones you had arrived in—are rumpled and probably well overdue for a wash. He can only describe your hair as a bird's nest—tangled and mussed as it is.

Really, he thinks, you should take better care of yourself! At least change into some… thing… else…

Oh. O-oh goodness.

Any building annoyance at your unkempt state drains away as it finally dawns on him. You had only arrived _ days _ ago, and like he and his brother and all the others before, you had appeared with nothing more than the clothes on your back. You didn't _ have _ anything else to change into, and _ stars _ , Blue realizes with a growing sense of guilt, not _ once _ have you asked for anything other than a phone charger. By the Angel, you probably felt _ uncomfortable _ asking them for anything.

Blue’s not an idiot, he’s more observant than a lot of people give him credit for, and he’s noticed a distinct lack of your presence lately. But he had chalked it up to you needing some time to settle in, to digest your situation. The more he thinks on it, however, the more ashamed he starts to feel. Maybe… maybe you had been purposefully isolating yourself from them? Red and Edge _ had _ made it painfully obvious they didn't like you—Edge in particular had been quite vocal in not wanting you around, and Blue had heard Red grumbling about you nearly bowling him over in the hallway, seemingly in a rush to get out of Classic’s room. When Blue had questioned Classic about it, he had merely brushed him off with an all too casual, “don't worry ‘bout it, s’nothin’ soul-shatterin’” and Blue had decided to take his counterpart at his word. But maybe… perhaps that had been a mistake?

He gently unfolds the blanket and carefully sets it around your shoulders, taking a seat on the chilled concrete beside you. You let out the softest of content sighs at the warmth now engulfing you and nuzzle into the fabric. The unbidden thought of how cute that is (how cute _ you _ are) flits across Blue’s mind. He lets that thought sit for a moment before pushing it away, feeling now isn't really an appropriate time for such things.

So he sits and he watches you, takes in how different you are when your defenses are down and you don't have to put on such a brave front—don't have to try and act like you're unaffected by the craziness happening to you. And he thinks… he hasn't been a very good friend to you, has he? To let you suffer alone as you clearly have been.

The more his thoughts spiral, the more he realizes they haven't been treating you very fairly at all, have they? Even the worst of them to appear hadn't been as ostracized, as _ persecuted _ as you have.

You shift in your sleep and he’s caught off guard when you suddenly tilt sideways, curling the blanket and clutching it tight to your chest. Your head finds its place in his lap and his sockets widen at that, magic rushing to his zygomatic bones in a heated blush. He just watches for a moment, frozen and afraid to move for fear of waking you. You really do look like you could use the sleep, which is odd because isn’t that all you’ve been doing lately?

…

…

…

He undoes the scarf from around his neck and, gingerly lifting your head, carefully places it between his femur and your head. He decides he can just do a double run tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There_, I'll treat ya to a wee bitta fluff. Does this suffice? Also, you should know there was a 50/50 chance for Ink to _actually_ get whacked with that hot pan. The squid managed to luck out, though, as the bot I used to pick, well... picked the best outcome for him. I'm only _slightly_ salty about that. And I apologize if any of the French is weird, I only have Google to rely on. *sweats* Which, come to mention, the idea of Ink speaking French is 100% [RubyDracoGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyDracoGirl/)'s fault.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](https://redeyedryu.tumblr.com).


	9. To Let Your Guard Down (Or Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treat yo self. (Or, rather, let the _skeleton_ treat you)

Waking up is a slow affair for some reason. You're just so cozy and _ comfortable _ . Despite the Sandman’s dust still weighing heavy on your eyes, you’re actually feeling more refreshed than you have in _ days _; this is probably the best you've felt since you arrived here.

You clutch the edge of the blanket already held within your grasp and _ s t r e t c h _, pulling the fabric taut against your shoulders and letting out a whining moan. Your hip and several areas of your spine pop and snap with the motion, eliciting yet another pleasured groan from you.

“Oh _ god _ ,” you moan, voice thick and heavy with sleep, “that felt _ amaz _ \- _ hnk _!” The rest of that sentence slips into nothing more than an incoherent inhale as your eyes flutter open.

There’s… there’s someone hovering over you. And as you tense, body shifting ever just so, you register your head is propped against a rather bony leg. _ Blue’s _ bony leg. You try not to flush when you realize you're using his lap as a pillow, something soft balled up between the two of you.

Oh shit. Oh _ shit _, how did this happen? 

“Good Afternoon,” Blue manages between chuckles, his sockets creasing in mirth as his grin spreads. “I’m Sorry To Startle You, But It Felt Wrong To Disturb You. You Seemed So Comfortable.”

Oh jeeze. Oh heck. Oh _ n o!! _ Had you _ seriously _ just held the poor guy hostage with your bowling ball of a head? You remember coming out here after that… unsettling interaction with Ink and then propping yourself against the wall, closing your tired, burning eyes for just a minute and then… 

You can _ feel _ the heat in your cheeks and your ears.

“N-no, shit, I-I'm… I’m so sorry, Blue,” you stammer as you extricate yourself from his lap. “I didn't mean- You could have just-!” And as the blanket falls from around your shoulders you realize… you hadn't fallen asleep with that. Had… had he gotten it for you? The thought of him going so out of his way for you causes a warm fuzziness to bloom in your chest. Oh heck. This guy is way too sweet, _ shit _, you don't… you don't know what to do.

Despite how initial introductions had gone off, and not counting Ink and his… weird behavior, you were beginning to believe no one liked you being around. So Blue’s sudden thoughtfulness, his _ friendliness _, is throwing you off.

It leaves you feeling… confused. Unsure on how to proceed.

So you decide to distract yourself with folding the blanket you had been using. Can't talk if your hands are busy, that's how it works, right?

Yes. Yes that is _ absolutely _ how it works.

You try to ignore the voice in the back of your mind telling you this is all some kind of elaborate setup, that he’s playing a trick on you—that this won’t last.

Instead, you listen to the one that tells you this: _ You are allowed to be happy. _

As Blue watches you awkwardly fumble with the blanket he can’t help but think: oh _ stars _ . The _ noises _ you had made as you woke… That absolutely _ adorable _ way you had practically growled, only for the sound to transition into a high pitched… _ something _ . He’s not even going to _ think _ about those _ other _ scandalous noises your body made.

He’s blushing, he knows he is—he can feel the magic heating his zygomatic bones. He hopes you don't notice… 

“Don't Worry About It,” he says as he unwinds his scarf and replaces it around his neck. You don't miss the way he tacks your name on there at the end rather than simply addressing you as “human.” It's… nice. “You Really Did Look Like You Needed The Rest,” he goes on to say as the two of you stand.

You elect to merely hum a response and leave it up to him how to interpret it as the two of you make your way into the house. He holds the door open for you as you step through and you nod your thanks. Just as you're about to ask where the blanket goes, he lifts it right out of your hands.

“One Sec!” he announces before running off down a hallway to the left. You stuffle by the door awkwardly and raise a hand to rub at your arm. A quick glance around the room has you noticing Red. He’s seated on the long lounge, the one you had been laid across during your “discussion” with Rus. There’s a tall can of some energy drink brand you don't recognize sitting before him and a little ways down the coffee table sits a black mug half full of what might be coffee. When you drag your gaze back to the shark-toothed skeleton, you manage to catch his crimson sights. His sockets squint as your eyes meet, the corners of his serrated grin dipping in a frown.

Yeah, no, you’re not up for dealing with him and his bullshit.

You turn away and, not wanting to take the chance he’s looking for a fight, decide to just make your way back to your borrowed room. You're just not feeling up to a verbal bout of fistycuffs right now.

You completely miss the baffled expression that morphs over his face at your hasty retreat.

* * *

As you reach for your door handle (you pointedly _ ignore _ the chill that dances across your skin at the idea of what might be waiting for you in there, pretend you don't see the way the shadows dance along the bottom of the door), Blue calls out to you. You twist to watch him jog down the hallway, your eyes drifting to the scarf wrapped around his neck. Your gaze lingers longer than is likely considered polite, and upon realizing you're staring, try to beat down the sudden heat that flares across your face.

He calls out your name again.

“Huh?”

Ah, such can eloquent response, you. Good job.

You blink a few times and try again. “Sorry, what was that?”

Something light and airy flops around in your stomach at the soft look the skeleton gives you as he comes to a stop before you.

“You Didn't Wait For Me…” he all but pouts.

Oof, now you feel bad.

“Sorry,” you repeat for lack of anything better to say.

He merely waves you off, his grin stretching wide and he’s suddenly leaning into your space. You bend back out of reflex, a brow raising. 

Uh… what does he… want? Is there something on your face? There’s something on your face, isn’t there? Maybe you drooled all over your-

“Would You Like To Go Shopping?”

...what?

You're gobsmacked, to say the least.

At your dead-fish stare Blue seemingly reigns himself back in and dips his head before rubbing at the back of his skull. He’s wearing wrist length azure gloves, you absently notice. They look soft.

...You kind of want to touch them.

<strike> You kind of want to touch _ him _ . </strike>

“Well…” he trails off, suddenly sounding unsure of himself. And isn’t that a bit odd? Swap Sanses are typically fit to burst with their enthusiasm and confidence.

You continue to stare at him and that seems to make him a bit unsettled. ...nervous?

Surely he isn’t…

...is he?

“You Don’t Exactly Have Anything Here, Do You?” He’s looking you in the eyes, his baby blue eyelights pinning you in place. Surely you’re imagining that guilty expression etched across his skull.

Your mouth clicks shut with an audible clack and you blink several times in succession. Turning away from the door, you shift to lean against the wall instead, one arm loosely cradling your waist as the other taps at your lips, a subtle, monotonous action to try and distract your racing mind. You miss the way Blue’s eye lights home in on your lips with the motion. He takes a moment to watch the way you nibble at the bottom one, lost in your own thoughts.

“Yeah, I guess you have a point,” you eventually acquiesce. “I've just been using what was already in the bathroom—which, for a house full of skinless bald guys, you all have a rather curious assortment of skin and hair care products…”

Blue laughs and huh. Are his cheeks dusting blue or is that your imagination? “That would be Black,” he admits once he manages to contain his mirth. “He gets that stuff for the humans he brings home.”

Your mind freezes.

Wait…

What?

Did… did you hear him right?

You pick your jaw off the ground and all but stumble out, “_ Black? _ The… that he… he brings them _ home _ ?” You're not naive enough to need the _ why _ of that admission spelled out but still! That wasn't… that’s not exactly something you were expecting to hear!

You can feel your face heating up. He _ had _ been rather flirty with you on several occasions. Did he… is he some kind of… ? Son of a-!

Blue looks a little sheepish at your reaction. 

You drag a hand through your hair and huff out a disbelieving, “_ Black??? _ ” Your brows shoot skyward, your head dipping and shoulders raising with the question. At Blue’s laugh and nod, you lean heavily against the wall and exhale a disbelieving, if not slightly strangled laugh. “Man, what the heck? I—the fandom, too, I should mention—always pegged _ Red _ as the stud.”

The skeleton leans against the wall opposite you, hands sliding into the pockets of his pants.

“Oh, Trust Me,” he starts with a conspiratorial grin, “Red Too.”

You snort. Well at least _ that _isn't a surprise.

“Oh my god. My life has been flipped upside down. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this information.” Your shoulders shake with barely contained giggles as you drop your face into your palm, shaking your head in absolute disbelief. Blue’s grin stretches at seeing this side of you, his eye lights shifting to stars in his jubilation.

After a moment of pushing down your mirth and biting back a few stray huffs of laughter, you breathe in a heavy inhale, puffing out the breath as you peel yourself from the wall.

“Okay, skeletal dalliances aside, would it be too much to ask that we head out… now? Now that you've put the thought in my head, I'm starting to feel really gross.”

You uh… yeah, you _ have _ been wearing the same clothes, the same _ underwear, _for going on a week now, haven't you? Yeah, a quick run to the store wouldn't be a half bad idea.

The grin Blue shoots you is blinding.

“NO PROBLEM!”

* * *

Blue had taken you to a nearby mall and you have to admit that the experience has been quite surreal thus far. Just like when you had first dived into this world’s internet familiar big name brands are missing, replaced by unknown ones and others yet that are just this side of being recognizable.

Weird. Super weird.

It is, however, interesting to watch the crowd, to see various monsters and humans co-mingling with nary a scowl or grimace in sight. At one point your mind flitted back to Rus’s words from the day that seems like forever ago: that it’s been _ years _… 

You're scared to ask Blue, to ask _ anyone _, just how long they've been here for fear of an answer you don't want to hear.

It wasn’t hard to focus on anything else after that.

At the moment you’re seated in a booth bench in the food court, waiting for Blue as he orders the two of you lunch. A few bags are seated beside you, having caved into letting the skeleton buy you a few items that had caught your eye, though you very strictly stuck to sale and clearance purchases, much to the skeleton’s chagrin. Once the two of you are done with your lunch break (though it is leaning more towards dinner at this hour), Blue said you would stop at a local grocery market for toiletries and anything else you were missing.

On one hand it’s nice to finally have something other than the clothes on your back to change into, to not have to rely on nicking things from the house, but on the other… you’re still entirely dependent on Blue generosity—on his money.

It doesn’t sit right with you.

“HERE WE ARE!” Blue exclaims excitedly, startling you from your thoughts and causing you to jolt in your seat. He strides up to your table with a self-assured confidence you wish you had as he goes on to announce, ”TWO GRANDE CARNE ASADA TACO ORDERS!”

He sets a tray absolutely _ loaded _ with food on the table before you, quickly settling into the seat across from you and oof. You _ really _ hope he isn’t expecting you to eat all of that…

“I HOPE YOU’RE HUNGRY!” he exclaims and uh oh... Yep. Looks like you’re in for a bit of a belly ache later because the way he’s looking at you—that radiant grin, those shining star eyes… You can’t let him down. _ You absolutely cannot. _

“THE TACOS FROM THIS ESTABLISHMENT ARE REALLY GOOD!” Blue continues talking as you do little more than stare accusingly at the plate he set in front of you, as if the meal has challenged you to a battle to the death. You start giving yourself the best pep talk you can manage with this mountain of meat, beans, and rice staring back at you.

Better start workin’ on a plan of attack, woman.

“THOUGH THEY DON'T COME ANYWHERE CLOSE TO MY _ OWN _ RECIPE.”

Man, how do you even _ start _ on this thing?

“I’LL HAVE TO COOK MY SPECIAL TACOS FOR YOU SOMETIME, THAT WAY YOU CAN PROPERLY COMPARE THE TWO!”

Goodness… can you even pick up the tortilla without everything just shitting out the ends?

“I CAN ASSURE YOU THAT YOU’LL BE BLOWN AWAY!”

You might need to eat this with a fork but… then wouldn't that make it more of a taco salad? 

“IT REALLY IS REGRETTABLE THAT WE DIDN’T ADDRESS THIS SOONER.”

You grab the plastic fork teetering on the edge of your plate and poke at the meat. Somehow the idea just feels so wrong.

“YOU’LL BE HAPPY TO KNOW THAT MY COOKING PROWESS HAS ONLY INCREASED WITH–You’re Not Listening, Are You?”

No… no, you can't use a fork, you gotta eat this with your hands. It's the only way. You’ll… you'll figure it out.

Yes.

Right.

You can do this!

...but just in case. ...for reference. You sneak a peek at Blue, to see just how the hell you start on this monster of a meal (no, don't acknowledge that incidental pun, _ do not _!) and oh. What?

With a bit of a startled flinch you realize he’s staring at you, his expression bemused, skull propped up on a gloved palm. His eyelights are soft and fuzzy around the edges, his smile so… so… _ something! _

<strike> Something that sets your heart aflutter. </strike>

<strike> You want him to keep looking at you like that. </strike>

Oh no. Oh goodness, _ stop it _, mister! Stop looking at this poor you with such an endearing expression!

You press your lips together and pointedly look back at your food. Your cheeks aren't heating up, those aren't your eyes widening and you're not pulling your shoulders tight in an embarrassed, futile effort to sink into the ground.

Nope. Nopity, nope, nope!

...

Fuck.

Screw it.

You can figure out this taco on your own! You don't need help from those sparkling baby blues!!!

Without looking at Blue or acknowledging your sudden awkwardness, you gather up the tortilla as best you can manage and proceed to stuff your face. Through the mortification of the situation, ignoring the sauce and oil trailing from the tortilla to your palm and down your wrist and the absolute mess you’re sure you appear to be right now, somewhere in the back of your lizard brain you have to admit… Blue’s right. This taco _ is _really good.

A chuckle rolls through the air between the two of you and you know it's Blue but like hell if you're going to acknowledge him. Don’t let that man sway you, woman—_don’t do it! _

You continue stuffing your face and can’t help but think: _ what the hell _ . Going from being surrounded by pretty much an entire household of people that are apparently intent on hating you to the far too sincere and attentive attention of this one skeleton is giving you mental whiplash. At first you thought everything would be okay, that everything would work out. Sure it’s an unbelievable situation and okay, maybe you could have handled your introduction better, and sure you were in denial about the reality of the situation (still kind of are, if you’re being absolutely honest with yourself), but you didn’t think everyone would be so… so… _ whatever _this is! 

You take a rather aggressive bite of the taco, your forehead scrunching as you continue to reflect on the past week, on your run-in with Error. Ink’s weird as shit behavior. The skeletons’ hostility and avoidance... 

“Uhm…”

And then there’s _ Nightmare. _ What even is _ that _ cluster fuck about? And why the hell is he even interested in you in the first place? How did he even _ know _ about you?

“Are You Alright?”

And then the whole business with Sans and your Soul. He’s not telling you something, you _ know _ he’s not, but _ what is it _? Surely if it was something bad or detrimental to your health he’d tell you… right? And if he thought you were dangerous, he wouldn’t let you stay in their house, right?

Your poor taco is being absolutely _ murdered _, the poor thing. Are you even tasting it anymore?

“Oh Goodness,” Blue sighs, “Again?”

So embroiled in your thoughts you miss Blue calling your name. A couple times, in fact. It’s not until you feel the pressure of a gentle hand on your shoulder do you startle out of your spiraling thoughts and become cognizant of the world around you once more.

Since when was Blue sitting beside you? You note the way his eye sockets are creased with an expression of concern and have to bite back a wave of guilt.

“I’m sorry?” you say, lowering what remains of your taco (surprisingly still more than half of it) and place it back on your plate. Oh. Gross. You’ve suddenly become quite conscious of the nasty trailing down your arm. You grab a napkin and begin wiping yourself down.

“No, Don’t Apologize,” Blue waves you off, pulling his hand from you as his expression shifts to something apologetic. “You Seem To Get Lost In Your Thoughts A Lot.”

“Ah. Sorry… it’s a recent development.” 

He huffs and huh… his he puffing out his cheek? Is he _ pouting _?

“You Don’t Have To Keep Apologizing, You Know.”

You have to bite your lip to keep from tossing out another “sorry” on reflex and instead mutter, “Force of habit.”

“Don’t Worry About It,” he says. “I’m Sure You Have A Lot Going Through Your Mind.”

Boy is that the understatement of the year.

“Yeah… you could say that.”

And with that, an awkward air settles between the two of you.

You don’t know what to say or how to move on from here and Blue doesn't seem to fare much better.

A few silent minutes pass as Blue shifts back to the other side of the booth and you finish cleaning yourself. You can’t bring yourself to eat any more of the taco, nor any of the sides that accompany your meal, and when you glance at his tray, you note his plate is completely empty. ...when did he even-?

“Did You Want To Head Out?” His question is abrupt but not unwelcome—anything to move on from this sudden uncomfortable atmosphere.

“Please.” you all but plead.

He nods and gathers up your mess, practically slapping your hands away when you try to help, and deftly clears the table. Your leftovers are placed in a to-go box and within one minute and the next, the two of you are making your way from the mall and into the parking lot. As you quietly follow behind the skeleton, discreetly taking in the view of his back and the confident way he carries himself, you note a foreign flutter in your chest.

_ No. Knock it off, _ you tell yourself as you tamp down the budding affection. You don’t know how long he’ll keep up this act. Don’t let your guard down now just because he’s shown you a few acts of kindness.

At least… not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W H E L P. That took ages to finish for whatever reason. Dunno why but the end of this chapter was just _fighting_ me tooth and nail. But now that it's out of the way I can get the ball rolling again! Yay~ Are you excited? Cause I know I am!
> 
> I just wanted to say that I'm absolutely terrible at responding to comments but I really do read each and everyone one y'all leave and I so, so appreciate all of you! Thank you so much for your comments and kudos! Also... some of y'alls' speculations about our dear Reader are very... :)
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr @ [redeyedryu](http://redeyedryu.tumblr.com/)


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